


Taken to a Stranger

by seemyselfout



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry is a business student, Jealousy, Lots of English lingo, Louis has a crap home life, Louis hides his feelings, Louis is a mechanic, M/M, Pining, Romance, Secret Crush, harry is the biggest tease, my apologies, small town
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seemyselfout/pseuds/seemyselfout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a mechanic in a small town in South Yorkshire, and he cannot fall in love. </p><p>Especially not with the new boy, the new boy who flirts with everyone he meets, the new boy who has no plan on staying at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The natural border to the south of Thumstill was a mile of great, green trees. Colossal, they were. For miles you could see them; over any fence, behind any house, through any window in town.

The older gents who lived there often said they could predict when a storm would come just by how the brush would move. Years ago, they would tell when a storm was brewing all by the swaying of the trees. When it rained, the canopy would collapse in on itself, folding in on itself like a scared kid under its duvet. 

The wind was particularly loud on this night, like a sad, wailing cry. It howled over the brick of the pub, whistled through the cobbled courtyards and scurried through the tiny gaps in the letter-boxes.  

To the other side, noise of the main carriageways could still be heard. Endless cars, though never seen, buzzed slowly, lethargically. Like a drone of bees. Thumstill could be used to get to greater towns, greater cities like Leeds or perhaps west to Bradford. Rarely would one stop and visit.

The parish had a mismatched collection of shops, bakeries, drinking houses and the odd funeral director's dotted about, though Louis had never actually met anyone who had died. The town centre was mostly family businesses for things no one really wanted, like seventies memorabilia and an excessive amount of charity shops, although the planting of a Claire's Accessories on Bridge Street did make the local headlines a couple of years back.

Economical growth was backwards; the industrial part of the town lay juxtaposed to large area of wheat and forestry, as if the town couldn't make up its mind, so decided on an insubstantial amount of both. The city of Doncaster lay a handful of miles to the South, and it was there that one would have to travel in order to see anything resembling a Tescos Local. It was run-down and beaten and old and riddled with a lack of stable middle class, but all the same it was a life to many.

A small but homely population of 40,000.

The thunder shook the roof of a garage that was buried in the outskirts of the town. A forgotten place, usually. It was used to service cars, mostly. Rain pattered endlessly on the tin roof, its tempo an indication of the aggression which prevailed outside. Purple and charcoal bruised the expanse of sky above, swirling and ethereal. The clouds moped around like big, grey ghosts. Reposed yet dangerous. What could be seen outside was projected inside, beams of the violet hues awash on the tiled floor.

Hazy. It was nice.

Louis wiped his nose with the back of his denim sleeve, squinting into what little distance the open doors revealed. His work for the day had finished. His cold hands were sooty and his cheeks ruddy where he had managed to jack up the navy off-roader, all ready for the morning when he would start again.

The turmoil in the sky was evident as it barked in a burst of thunder, its inky clouds bleeding into what was left of the afternoon.

“Oh, God.” He sighed, worry etched in his eyes.

But Louis had reasoned, as he pulled up a scratched leather chair towards the doors, that the rain had already started and would only continue to get worse in degree. He would not be going anywhere. Beside him, he flicked on the kettle that they kept there and mindlessly scoured for a sachet of tea in the draws under the ancient computer. Weather like this always called for a decent brew. Satisfied with a pouch of long-forgotten PG Tips, Louis dragged his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, staring through the open mouth of the garage doors into the wreckage that would begin soon.

He read for a while, the first pages of Hardy's _Jude_ being of great comfort to him. Mobile signal was always shit out of the main part of town so he couldn't distract himself with that. He'd also abandoned his readings recently, what with the surprisingly large influx of cars this tiny town managed to break.

He read up until Jude's search for the town of light in the novel. Louis looked up unto his own town of light as a lick of lightening scorched the landscape in the distance. The heaviness of the rain only allowed a scope of about fifty metres in front of Louis, into which only the grey asphalt of the car park was visible. The golden glow of wheat in the strips of field over the road could be seen marginally, too. An agricultural fence caked in mud distinguished that the field wanted nowt to do with the commercialised land that Louis was currently sat in.

Louis thought about the paradox in their small town. There were just as many farms as there were shops, as many pubs as there were clubs. A humble handshake of old Thumstill and new, side by side in an ugly coalition.

He shuffled further into the seat, the temperature dropping ever so slightly. His navy polo shirt began to itch, the porous fabric suffocating. He scratched at his neck with haste.

Shit.

If only he could get home... his mum would be worried sick, even if she did know where he was. He pictured his sisters tucked away, thinking about Louis. The little ones would almost certainly be in tears. And Lottie was always so scared of thunderstorms. Louis looked up into the tempestuous sky and wondered if three miles homeward, the girls saw the same sight.

He looked glumly to his very own dusty red Ford outside being pelted. You knew better than to drive in this weather, and Mark had strictly told him not too. He was stuck for the time being with nowt to do, in the garage where he spent every day, except those he sparingly was given off.

Louis had spent most of his twenty-one years in this garage. He knew every grunts of machinery, the gurgle of engines and the screech of tyres. The nauseous smell of petrol and the endless task of getting the sticky black crap off your hands at the end of every day. The smoke, from all the fags the men would smoke. Puff puff. He had endured all the mindless chatter, from yesterday's football match on telly to the gruesomely detailed account of a frequent customer's sex life. The grease of his overalls, which like Macbeth would never come off. The groan of the leather as he slid in the sixth seat of the day, taking a deep breath as he realised the only thing that changed in this little routine of his was the smell of the Little Trees air freshener.

If it were a lucky day, he wouldn't see a lot of customers. Most of the guys that visit here ain't worth talking to, see. You had to be careful with what you said to those kind of guys - the big, burly kind. Men's men. Louis's not exactly the largest of guys, not in any sense of the word, really. A slip up of anything other than ritualised masculinity and they'd latch onto it like piranhas.

When his mum's boyfriend Mark was absent, however, Louis was the big boss. Listening to the Stones, smoking a joint if Zayn had popped in earlier, the sweet tang coating his lungs as he watched the clouds roll by. It was alright. It wasn't living, as per, but it was alright.

The downpour fell heavier, the brash cacophony of the inexorable rain, the deep-bellied bass of thunder resounding from above. A car rattled past, incognito in the nebulous atmosphere, headlights muted by the sheet of rain. Its wind screen wipers working mercilessly, pointlessly, and its tyres whipped through the pools on the ground, desperate to get home.

Louis wondered if he could manage the escape himself. He looked at the jacked-up car behind him. He got to drive some proper fit cars in his line of work. Certainly one of the very few perks to being a mechanic. He even got to ride a Porsche once. It was an old Porsche, maybe an oh-one registration plate, but how many people can say they've actually done it? The gentle purr of the engine, the leather of the seats. Gorgeous thing.

Louis would test out the cars sometimes when Mark was absent, which was an often occurrence as the Royal Arms pub lay only quarter of a mile in the opposite direction. Purely for work's sake, of course. He needed a proper diagnosis, and all that. Well, just once when Mark was getting pissed down the pub, Louis took a green little Polo out. A tiny thing, square and squat and belonging to a girl no older than eighteen, a couple of years above Louis in school.

It looked about ten minutes away from giving its last breath from the exhaust. Louis was only sixteen, and so did not have a full licence. He'd been helping out at the garage since he was twelve or so, when the fewness of his age was in harmony with the freckles on his cheeks, giving Mark a hand or pissing about in the garage after school. It was basically Louis' divine right to try it out. The steering wheel vibrated beneath his sweaty palm as it came alive. The engine worked overtime, working up nearly 4,000 revs. He was suddenly liberated. Louis, this new, independent man who was as free as a bird, bound to nothing, answerable to nobody. He shoved the gear-stick into first. It promptly drove into a wall.

And er, well. Mark was not too pleased. He thinks he's still got the bruises. He scratches his head dismissively. Mark and Louis had a strenuous relationship at best, and total nemisism at worst. They never got on and rarely spoke in accordance to this fact. Sometimes, when Louis had drunk himself into a stupor of abyss, apropos of nothing but boredom, they fought. Shouting matches down St George's Street at three in the morning, neighbours peeping out the slits in their drapes.

His mum, Jo, would kick him out if it got too bad, the girls following behind her like a set of ducklings. It was never his proudest moment, watched by his sister's as their brother, sickened, drunk and off his face on something or other, picked fights with their step-dad.

It wasn't just Louis' fault though – it takes two to tango and all that. Sometimes they even got physical: Louis would lash out when Mark had failed to return for the evening, and Jo was worried sick, pacing all night in the kitchen. Mark would usually be ushered home by the landlord of the Royal Arms and the humility alone was enough to enrage Louis.

Once, Louis was caught drinking White Lightning with his friend Stan in the garage after hours and got a clip round the ear and stern telling off. They'd has tussles before, but it wasn't entirely uncommon for men of their nature to fight so bitterly, especially given the circumstances of their forced-upon relationship after his mother married Mark.

He fought with Mark because he had no other option. He couldn't cry, hadn't been able to in such a long time, so he just shook and cursed and shouted and swung his fists until something, anything, would fight him back. Because he could feel anger so passionate it festered in his core, and felt despair so deep that it twisted like a wrench in his gut but sadness...

Sadness is a difficult companion with pride, and so is love and anything tender that requires the criticality of personal sacrifice to grow. And Louis was simply unwilling to hurt himself to allow others to hurt him back.

Disappointment was a particularly large pill to swallow. So maybe Louis once wanted to do something different. Well, he supposes life gets the better of some people in that way. He wouldn't sit there and weep about it. But sometimes Louis does wonder.

He doesn't like to talk about it much, but he once dreamed of teaching kids. Drama, maybe. Or perhaps English? But what did it matter, considering he never got the chance to go to the sixth form like all the other lads. Mark's business was going under at the time he finished secondary and he needed extra hands, quick. His mum was struggling with money, falling pregnant with the twins had debilitated her from working as a nurse. The rent to the council was pulling them under, and so Louis knew his purpose from the moment he learnt this. He didn't even bother applying for college.

And so, at the age of 20, Louis Tomlinson had no formal qualifications and no professional skill but how to fix a fucking car and change a tyre.

 

Growing agitated with his own thoughts, Louis tossed the book he was holding to the floor and it landed with a dull thump. He checked his phone and there still wasn't a single bloody bar of signal. He was about to send his mum a text-

A majestic clap of thunder grasped the atmosphere and roared into it. It startled Louis so much that he dropped the phone onto his lap. Electric forks split over the scene before him, like water poured into a socket, fizzing with anticipation. Louis stared into the gloomy heavens. A crisp bolt of light descended on that moment, and plugged itself into the ground a few miles away, somewhere amidst the wheat fields. It had become colder recently, and the breath which poured from his mouth plumed in white smoke.

Louis saw him coming only thirty foot away.

A large black Range Rover, bedecked in alloys and the works Louis couldn't help but notice, rolled its tyres onto the gravel in front of the garage, headlights obscuring the person behind the wheel. The frozen rain picked up speed, whipping in the wind.

He heard the engine cut and waited for someone to emerged. A long bout of silence ensued, punctuated by the patter of rain. Louis watched the lone black mass, its silent presence eerie. He peered with a squint, leaning forward infinitesimally. But no movement. Just the great dark entity that was parked crooked, bobbed on two monster wheels, rain turning the windscreen white with its force.

Suddenly, the gravel crunched as out jumped a male figure with a newspaper positioned over his head, in what Louis could only imagine was a luckless hope to escape the downpour. Louis does not recollect much in those early minutes of the stranger's arrival. The gentleman hurriedly strolled towards the garage, legs working in quick succession to cover the distance, his newspaper the victim of the rain's siege as it hung soggily above his head.

“What you doing, lad?” Louis muttered to himself in frustration. If this were a customer for an appointment in this weather, not a chance, love.

He got up from his seat to discourage the stranger who had already started approaching the open doors towards Louis. Louis shook his head and waved his hands, the universal signal for 'no'.

“Not today, mate.” Louis began calling, his hand a shield against his eyes as he took his first step out into the storm just as he met the man's eyes. It all hit him at once. The drench of the rain, like a blessing, soddening the bottom of his jeans and filling his holey boots. The smell of the fresh storm, wet and cold. And light. The indiscernible light colour of these irises, impossible to see quite clearly.

Despite his discouragements, they were toe to toe by the time Louis reached the door.

"Sorry, mate-"

“Please,” The gentleman panted. Who, under the iridescence of the fluidly changing sky, appeared quite young by his face. “I just need a moment.” Water fell from lips as he spoke. Those wide, resplendent eyes came to fix upon Louis' form. Wild, they were, and Louis thought he could feel everything in them.

But Louis shook his head. He could already feel his fluffy hair getting ruined. Bugger. He was in a sticky position of arguing outside and being subject to the wet weather which impeded such conversation, or inviting the man in to avoid said rain but effectively welcoming him to stay. He attempted again to deny the young man, already opening his mouth to say something further, but the boy had ducked past Louis, stooping his head under the lowered shutter and made his way into the mouth of the garage.

And, what? Louis blinked into the tumultuous landscape in front of himself. Only the howl of the trees answered him.

“Sorry,” He heard a somnolent voice start behind him, its sound awash with rain, and so Louis spun on his heel to match the voice. “Did you say something?”

He was ruffling his rinsed hair, which was ear-length and curly and naturally dark in hue. He tucked the sopping paper under his arm, only clad in a thin moss-green coloured shirt. He must be frozen, Louis thought absent-mindedly. 

“I said, not today, mate.” Louis huffed, trying to calm his annoyance. “We're closed; there's a bloody thunderstorm out there, if you can't see already.” The thunderous noises highlighted the point soon after. “I'm not open for business.”

He didn't mean to be rude, but he really didn't have time for this today. He wasn't in the mood to fix up some car, not in the ever-impending dark, not when the power lines were bound to be unreliable, not when the card machines would play up. Not with this man that he didn't know from Adam with his big hunky black fuck-off car that would cost a fortune for him to fix. Not now, he resolved.

But instead of accepting these terms and resuming on his merry way like a sane being might do, the boy only served to open his hands and placate his cause.

“Sorry, man, it's just like- my engine light came on about a mile down the road and, like. I think I saw black smoke? I can't drive it, and I don't really think it's safe to be in the car and wait for the rain to subside.” The silence that followed after was a clear indication of the man's unvoiced but not unheard request: _don't be tight, just take a look at my car, will ya?_

Louis chewed on his lip. He allowed himself in that half a minute of awkward deliberation the curiosity to peer generously at the man. He could not see much of him, the shadow masking some of the finer details, but Louis would note passingly the man was attractive. His nose was noble and his eyes deep set, and the violet light of the room blessed his face so reverently with contrast, deepened his pouted mouth to a shade of impassioned peony. All framed artfully by dark curls. The gentleman, unaware of the debate inside of Louis' stomach, continued his ministrations of pleading, simply gazing at Louis unblinkingly and intensely, poised for any kind of offering he may receive.

“How much money you got?” Louis said after a while.

The man simply spluttered an “I do beg your pardon?” in return.

Louis rolled his eyes. This could get messy. “Well, to be honest with yer, you've inconvenienced me. It's late, and there's a mental storm outside tonight. I might have just been about to step out the door before you turned up. I could be back to me family by now. Say I do have a look at your car... how much would you pay me for this totally selfless sacrifice?” Louis prides himself on his humbly persuasive and definitely not intimidating negotiation skills. A few extra hundred tonight won't hurt anybody. Christmas is coming up soon and he needs to put some presents under the tree. He also wouldn't mind a packet of fags for himself (he ran out yesterday and its kind of killing him slowly inside).

“Well,” The man stuttered as he recovered, which Louis noted with amusement. His accent, although still of Northern descent, sounded quite posh. It spoke of money and private tennis courts and stables full of horses. Louis has always liked horses. There was an earnestness about him, a trust, though Louis knew this could not be true. You can never trust a man's sincerity. He learnt that lesson the hard way, thank you, dad.

The man patted his pockets down, which appeared flat and lacked the tell-tale bulge of a wallet on either side. He watched Louis' face as he did so, waiting for him to catch on. No money.

Louis smirked. “That is unlucky.” He sing-songed simply, with a quick shrug of his shoulder. He made a grand show of walking to the light panel, his fingers tinkering with the switches.

“Wait.”

Louis grinned, his back to the speaker. Breath caught, just right, for the answer.

“I... I can call someone in the morning and get you fixed up. Any amount, no problem.” His low voice answered, smooth and unwavering. A confident man. Louis looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow piqued in suspicion.

Louis considered. “I'll give you a quote. It sounds complex, no doubt. Probably a problem with the gasket, but I do hope not for your sake. We could be looking at a couple of weeks, to be honest with you.” But despite the long list of bad news Louis had delivered about his beloved car, one after the other in a defeating blow which would normally reduce any other man to tears, the guy simply... smiled? Yes, that was a smile. A minute, quick quirk of his lips, but seemingly genuine all the same. Louis frowned in response.

“Thank you.” He croaked. The rain lightened in its discourse outside. Silence ensued again, pregnant and puckered.

Louis dismissed the gratitude with a shake of his head. Both said nothing.

It was weird, this quiet, because Louis was the least shy person in the world. He was loud, brazen, on fire at all times. He was scared of nobody. Certainly not scared by this ball-of-wool who stood only a few feet away. His curls had gone a bit frizzy in the rain, standing up at odd ends around his ears. He was the strangest contradiction, this guy. His eyes glistened, large and pale. His countenance was unimpeachable, cheeks rosy. Mouth wide, slightly agape, breathing noisily. Acne scars nearly indistinguishable on his chin. He carried his childhood with him in his face.

But there was undeniably the presence of man when you stood before him. His statue was something of six feet, and Louis had to look up to speak directly, much to his chagrin. His shoulders were muscular and rounded like sails, arms of imponderable strength. His jaw was firm set, cheekbones high, tooth chipped the slightest at the bottom, Stubble that never quite grew. And Louis smelt him too, distinguishable only because he knew that the musky lilac scent could not come from himself. Louis had never come across it before, people didn't usually wear anything but soap and laundry powder in the country round here. It was odd for Louis, who had never smelt another boy if not for sweat, or seen a pair of eyes this bright, or seen a watch of that make. But he was not scared, no.

 

But it seemed that he was not scared of Louis either. Albeit the odd situation they had found themselves in, Louis noticed upon meeting his eyes that the other boy appeared to be under the same considerations. Louis caught his curious stare briefly wandering about Louis' face.  The rain trickled off the roof, a gentle tapping. Only once their eyes met, which at once prompted the man to quietly smile and Louis to deflect immediately. He coughed, and saw remains of that smile in his peripherals.

“Fetch your car whilst the rain is still quiet.” Louis murmured, still looking away as he grew uncomfortable. “We'll work in here.”

_We. Not exactly the pronoun I was looking for_ , Louis thought. Never mind.

It procured a wide grin out of the boy opposite himself anyway, blindingly large and entirely false, and retreated outside. Louis grew cold at his pretence, turning away. _Let's hurry this up,_  Louis thought. _The sooner I can be alone_. 

He shakes his head and laughs under his breath. The dry thunder laughs with him.

The shit he does for money.


	2. Chapter 2

Louis whistled low as the man jumped about a foot from the actual car onto the cold floor. Registered that year, paint pristine, with that new shine on the bonnet that reflected the wan garage bulbs. The car was was gorgeous.

The driver caught his eye, a flush and a small, bashful smile on his lips, teeth bitten into the plush of the bottom segment. He walked around the car to Louis, and in a swift movement, threw the key into his hands.

“Thanks, man. Beauty, isn't she?” _Yeah_ , Louis thought sourly, key clutched to his chest. _I work with cars, and could never own something like that in my life_.

“She certainly is.” Louis thought, perhaps a bit too wistfully. “How'd's a guy as young as you afford one of these?” He asked, patting the bonnet. And, oh yeah – that question could be construed as rude, he guessed. Sure. But if you ask Louis to fix something, he'll ask you whatever he God damn pleases in return. It's a fair exchange, no? Nevertheless, he promptly smiled sweetly with a hint of mischief and tried to pass it off as cheekiness, like he always did. Louis could usually get away with what he wants if he gave you the wag of his eyebrows and the right crinkly-eyed smile.

It's a good thing the boy only laughed with slight surprise.

“Erm,” he rubbed the back of his neck, head cocked and looking at Louis through the fringe of his hair. “My parents, I guess? Got it for my eighteenth birthday.”

Louis snorted. Posh boy, indeed. “I got socks and drunk for my eighteenth birthday.” He informed, deadpan. The boy burst out laughing, hand over his mouth, eyes morphed in the widest half-crescents Louis had ever seen. Louis half smiled, because, hey, he's hilarious and he loves it when people realise that too. Good for them. Louis watches with a strange pride in the tips of his ears and the man continues to snort.

“Wasn't that funny,” Louis said half-heartedly, quietly, schooling his smirk into a serious line. The man crooked a smile, and apologised in vain, still chuckling.

“So like, that must make you eighteen, right?” Louis asked, trying desperately not to sound over-enthusiastic. He just wanted to know the details, y'know? It's good to know about your clients.

“That's right.” the boy hummed nonchalantly, now turning his attention to the posters on the wall, hands in the back pockets of his black jeans. **Check out your M.O.T this month – 20% off!** One read, and Louis died internally. Something in that room made him feel a bit ashamed of what he did, ashamed to be a greasy mechanic on minimum wage. Louis wanted to tell the man to get out, leave now. Call it a day and just sit down again, read _Jude the Obscure_ until he forgot his own name.

Because, oh, Louis did not know. Maybe because this man was close to his age and his parents could afford a brand new Range Rover worth more than Louis' entire fucking salary? What was this guy even doing here, in the arse-end of Yorkshire, in Thumstill, in his step-father's garage? At nearly seven o'clock at night It felt like an imposition. He should be locked away somewhere with his fit girlfriend, or whatever it was that rich eighteen year olds do. Not... not this. And what profession could ever justify a wealthy, young, regrettably pleasant gentleman to ever spend time with Louis on a rainy night? Louis was meant to be alone, did he not understand? But he was too proud to capitulate to such insecurities. And he never would choose to feel second best to anyone. Not this guy, not anyone.

“What's your name, then?” Louis demanded, aggression sparking from nowhere at all. _Take it down a notch, Louis._

The man swerved on his heel, broad back turned in his direction. He paused in his activities and blinked owlishly at Louis. “Harry... Styles.” He tacked on. “Yours?”

“Louis.” he boldly stated. And then, “Well, Harry Styles, let's get you a quote.” Because, well. He had nothing else to say, didn't know how to talk to him, and sounding like a cheesy gay salesman was apparently an adequate conversation tool. Harry smiled, teeth whiter than the sun's ass. Oh God, was he a fucking movie star? An eighteen year old movie star who drives a sexy car?

Whilst Louis had this inside breakdown, Harry simply finalised his acquiescence with a polite smile, probably thinking _yes, you mad little man, now get on with it_! Alas, Louis would not blame him. Harry turned back around, reviewing what little aesthetic medium the garage had to offer. Louis watched, soundlessly. Behind the boys ear, the uniform of trees through the window were being strangled by the vigour of the wind. Louis wished they would just stop.

***

He wheeled himself from underneath the car, the wooden creeper groaning with his momentum. Harry Styles, who had picked up the torch to help Louis out, jumped at his sudden movement and aimed the blinding torch into Louis' eyes.

“Arghh,” Louis groaned, pushing it away, and the other man huffed a laugh, a 'sorry' slipping out in between. Louis noticed that when Harry would laugh, which admittedly was quite often and usually at nothing, his lip would pull just over his teeth and reveal this really wonky grin.

“Assume the worst,” Louis said, sitting up and looking into his worried green eyes. “Head gaskets gone.”

The boy's wide mouth frowned, frown lines deep set. “In English please, Louis?” And, oh yeah. He was really fucking personal, too, and kept calling Louis by his name. Annoying.

“ _Como estas, chico_? Your car's fucked basically, mate.”

A head of hair dramatically hung at the news and a very masculine-sounding grunt of despair was heard somewhere within the mass of curls obscuring his face. Poor guy, Louis empathised. There is nothing so dear to a man than his car, he thought, briefly glancing outside to his own temporarily invalid motor. Louis tried to lighten the mood a bit, seeing clearly how Harry was distressed. Hell, when Louis' car needed to be _valeted_ he almost cried at the prospect of having to walk anywhere again. He uselessly tapped the man's broad back in an awkward attempt to be comforting. He removed it instantly when the man looked up, head rested on both his arms, eyes tired and troubled. He heard his whoosh of breath, the complexities of his lids and his lashes, the split in his lip.

“So like, how long do you reckon it'll be?” He rubbed his eyes glumly, pushing all that hair off his forehead and redirecting his glazed eyes onto Louis again.

“Hard to say, to be honest with you. I'll probably need to talk to Mark.” If the bastard's ever in, Louis mused petulantly.

“Mark?” Harry asked, a line arising in his forehead at the proposed length of it all. Surely he wasn't under the impression that this problem could be fixed spick and span?

“Yeah, the owner of this place.” Louis, noticing the hour and deciding it was well and truly past closing time, sat down on his bottom opposite the very depressed-looking Harry and fiddled with the top button of his mechanic work polo. It wasn't exactly the most professional of standings he'd ever been in, he could be the first to admit it. But it was pushing eight o'clock and the storm was relentless. Like a kicking child, it would probably go on all whole night. He wouldn't be getting any rest by the looks of it. So Louis can be excused a bit of formalism, thank you. “I mean like, I'm just gonna run through the general service with it, because that's all I can really do at the moment. But I'm thinking maybe the engine's going to need replacing completely.”

Harry reburied his head in the crook of his elbow. “How much are we talking?” his voice was heard unintelligibly.

Louis summed it up in his head. It would be a lot, there was no doubt. At least three thousand pounds for the engine itself (his model was quite new, the toft) and on top of that, the fitting fees. _Never be too specific with the price_ , he recalled Mark saying after running a cheque through for eight grand. _It lets you get away with a hell of a lot more, son_.

“Quite a price, I assure you.” Louis settled, evasively. This particularly hurtful piece of news was not what seemed to distress Harry particularly. Rather, his main consideration was how on earth he would get home without a car, in a thunderstorm, with a phone out of signal. He voiced this worry, mostly speaking to himself, and Louis could not help but feel terrible. He himself could not get home, you see. The hilly roads looked flooded and the rain had still pursued. Lightning was in intervals of every half hour or so. Because his area of town was quite derelict in terms of other edifices, and surrounded by miles of field and a stretch of forest... Well. He couldn't risk it. It was simply too dangerous for the pair of them. He was only three miles from his family, and Harry could live in Edinburgh for all he knew. They'd still be in the same boat.

“Well,” Louis began, and at this Harry looked up with interest. And perhaps a hint of hope. “Where abouts do you live? I could maybe give you a lift?” Louis really hoped he didn't sound creepy. He just didn't know how to go about acting nice. “It's the least I owe you for what you're about to pay, I guess.” But before he could finish, Harry shook his head.

“Don't worry, it's miles away. Leeds” And shit, _yeah, that is miles away_. _Fifty minute drive, at least._  “Thank you, though” He gave Louis a brief grimace. He coughed into his fist, motioning outside, “This weather isn't stopping any time soon apparently either.”

Louis looked out into the whirlwind that was taking place outside. They had managed to shut the door after the water had started making labyrinthine paths into the garage. The wind whistled hollowly, spookily, around every object in its path. If those trees truly do tell the weather, Louis pondered in quick thought, then this storm would last forever.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, man, that does kind of suck.” Harry nodded glumly in agreement. He played with the frays in his jeans nervously, as if plucking up the courage to speak.

“Would you maybe mind if I stayed here? Just like, perhaps until the rain stops and I can call someone? You can say no, obviously.” He questioned, eyes like a prayer. At seeing Louis' superficial faltering, he further explained, “In my car, of course. I'll just stay in my car. You can even stay with me if you like? Not like that-!” his eyes were alarmed. “Just because, well...” He pointed a sturdy finger over to the chair in the corner “That doesn't look too comfy, either.”

Admittedly, Louis had slept on that chair before and woken up with a back that would never be the same again. He could do with the rest, if the storm did pursue like it was promised to. He couldn't stay up all night, of course, not when he had had such an early start fixing the Ford.

He shrugged non-committally. “You can sleep there, sure.” They gave each other a tired smile.

Louis, as a matter of his job, explained farther the consequences of the damage, pulling out a couple of contracts and agreements he had to sign. Harry looked just about ready to pull his hair out by the end of it, with words like 'MLS Cylinder Heads' probably stuck in his head forever. Louis knows the struggles, will probably name his first child Low Rolling Resistance Tyres due to his inability to ever forget the bloody phrase.

And Louis couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit responsible. He was soon to be demanding big bucks out of this guy after the whole ordeal anyway. He grabs the papers from Harry's hands after he signs, legging it across the room to chuck them on the desk.

“So, what are you doing round my neck of the woods, anyway?” Louis asked in a poor attempt to distract him.

Harry shuffled on his bum, resting his back now against the car, legs outstretched, matching Louis' pose. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The poor light made his complexion sallow and smooth. His throat was exposed, and more of that smell that had come to madden Louis in the most incomprehensible way possible was once again forced upon him. He sniffed a little and shivered nearly not noticeably, the temperature dropping steadily around them both.

“I was coming down to see my mum, 'cause she lives up in Leeds.” Harry started, voice quieter now. Tired. “I travel up from London during out-of-term time to see her. And yeah, I always pass this bit of Yorkshire then get back on the motorway, because I bloody hate-”

“-That stretch of road behind the woods, yeah, everyone avoids it. It's a nightmare. In this weather I can't imagine anyone's survived it.” Harry giggled quietly, eyes still rested, head titled in Louis' direction. Louis continued: “But it's thanks to that road that I get most of my customers, so win-win!” Harry barked out a strange laugh that sounds a bit too exuberant to come from such a creature. Was that funny? Or was Harry the kind of person to laugh at everything? Louis loves those kinds of people. It only served to spur Louis on (he's a showman, after all).

“It's true! That road is right in between the Forbidden fookin' Forest on one side and the shitty town of Doncaster on the other. But then everyone's like, well, both have trolls living within, so cold and dark is their nature. So, yeah, Thumstill it is.” Louis says in amidst the structurally sound laughs Harry makes. They're very 'hah-hah-hah'. It makes Louis feel a bit appreciated because he is a comedy lord.

“It's like the book _The Bear Hunt_! Do you remember that book? Did your mum ever used to read it?” Harry asked excitedly, eyes wide as stars, almost grey in colour, and big mouth agape with some sense of awe. His little white teeth poked out. It was quite funny.

Louis realised too late that he was staring when he looked up and saw the crease between Harry's brow, waiting for an answer. He cleared his throat, “ _Can't go under it, can't go over it. Oh no! We'll have to go_ through _it_!” Louis finished off most seriously, and Harry clapped his paws of hands like a child. To his utmost respect, Harry had cheered up remarkably from learning that he would in fact have to essentially mortgage himself in order to pay for the hefty fine Louis had coming his way. He gulped. Poor lad.

“Well, that's not fair.” Harry giggled rebuke came. “Doncaster's not that bad.” He protested squarely. Bless him, he didn't know the true terrors.

“You haven't seen what I've seen.” Louis quipped with faux fright, widening his eyes.

Harry shrugged, contemplatively allowing this. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “I am a foreigner, after all.” His grin was accompanied by a dimple in his cheek, deep and prominent.

Louis sat up, back rigid. “Ooh, how interesting. Where are you from then, eh?” he prompted.

Harry merely sat up straighter, meeting eyes with him, secrecy dancing in the bulbs, and rested his chin on his shoulder. His voice dropping an octave, lips wicked with a smile spreading. “Guess.” he whispered.

Okay.

“Greek?” Louis spoke. Harry returned him with a look of total confusion. His eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide with alarm.

“What on earth would make you think that?” He laughed boisterously, arms crossed and hands gripping his biceps to rest.

 _Because you are astoundingly good looking_. “The curls, mate. Who do you think you are, Apollo? Is that a nest atop your head, Harry Styles?” And before he could even laugh, he felt a light smack round the side of his ear.

“You fucker!” Another playful whack met his arm. But Louis was laughing too hard to stop him. After Harry could no longer continue, he broke out into a series of giggles himself, and patting his hair self consciously when he thought Louis couldn't see, which just made Louis dissolve into another round of laughter.

It was bizarre to Louis, the feeling which took hold of the room. Not within himself, the boy is made of steel if anybody asks, but the ambience. The storm had cut most sources of any other communication. Neither could even travel. They were most essentially stuck with one another for hours now, at least, with just each other to direct their boredom onto. And yet, the storm also made Louis' belly feel heavy with a liquid he had not consumed. It made the lights flicker, the night cooler. It made the sky a toxic shade of the deepest indigo, which trickled into the garage that night and repainted everything inside another mood entirely.

They talked about everything, their tiredness easing conversation that much more so and the seconds melting like wax. Harry discussed his studies in the College of London, where he was completing his degree in business.

“To become a big business man?” Louis asked imploringly, a wry grin on his lips. “Get all the girls in the office, is that it?”

“No,” Harry answered huffed, indignant and a little flushed. Ha ha. “I want never to have to worry about the terrible prospect of money again.” He stated, seriously. Louis rolled his eyes. Who even was this guy?

“So tell me, Mr...” He looked down. “Skin-tight Trousered Philanthropist,” Louis snorted, and Harry raised his eyebrows in a challenge, a close lipped smile donning his face as he leaned closer, back sliding down the car. “How ever will you manage to nullify the prospect of money simply by making lots of it? I mean, don't get me wrong, I've got nout to my name, but that's hardly a big 'fuck you' to the system, is it?”

Harry shook his head slowly, eyes beseeching Louis' in the dark. They were unblinking, so serious. He smiled politely.

“It is a 'fuck you', Louis.” He asserted quietly. “Because to adhere to their standards, raise myself in social standing, and then piss down on each of their silly beliefs, judgements and conventions...” Harry shrugged one shoulder, eyes lost now to the dark ahead of him. “To become one of them, then to renounce myself and reject their way of living. What more effective way to destroy somebody than to understand them first?”

Truthful, indeed. Which surmised exactly why Louis never let anybody understand him; let them think he was a bastard, go ahead. Because the understanding of him would lead to self-destruction.

And, hey, who knew? Rich boy Harry Styles stood firmly left-wing. Good man.

They would have the most facetious of conversations, yet gaze so diligently at one another each, consider the other so seriously in manner, that to any other outsider it would appear a very severe topic indeed. To any insider though... Well.

But was not due to affection it must be noted, but to a man's simple curiosity, Louis concluded. And Louis was endlessly curious about him. To no surprise, of course; this man who had turned up randomly at the garage doors after closing hours, in the middle of the worst thunderstorm in decades, in the middle of nowhere. Who brought good conversation and a bizarre sense of humour. A man who resided in London, studied at a university like a proper adult. Had a future ahead of him. Wore cologne, for God's sake, of _course_ Louis was curious.

The lights had finally given up at approximately 10:40pm when a particularly scary bolt of lightning struck, illuminating the faces of themselves. Harry had checked his flashy silver watch and pronounced the lights dead, like a coroner. His breath was heavy, shadows cast over his face to contour every hollow, to highlight every prominence. Louis tried to match his breath accordingly.

“Want to get some tea?” Louis whispered, and Harry beamed toothily.

“Mm, please. Thought you'd never ask, I've been suffering silently, in all honesty. What a terrible host you are.” He scolds, eyebrows furrowed and wagging a finger.

“Hey!” Louis gasped, mock-outraged. Harry revelled in it, giggling in his deep baritone. “Who's fixing your car, remember?” He grinned back at Harry from over his shoulder, getting up to refill the kettle. He busied himself in washing up the mugs, small smile permeated on his face. He finds two rogue PG Tips in the draw, and a lone half-pack of chocolate digestives. Louis didn't even want to think about when they went off. You could probably carbon date them, to be honest. He hoped Harry didn't notice, there's nothing worse than bad biscuits to spoil your tea.

“Thank you, by the way.” The gruff voice called from behind him. Louis turned around, the kettle only beginning to bubble.

“What for?”

“Taking me in like the stray I am. Fixing my car when anybody else would send me packing. For being so... Hospitable, I guess. Thank you.” Louis looked at his speaker. From farther away, the distance only served to make him all the more so handsome. Louis had come to terms with the fact, like accepting grief. He lamented that although his own beauty was fine, always did well by him, it was hardly to this guy's standards. Harry's eyes had darkened with the distance and his features became outlined by the skies foggy countenance. All his shades deepened with dramatic contrast. He was just lucky, that's all. Harry played with his hair, fidgeting, twirling a few long strands round his fingers before brushing it back and starting again.

“You're welcome.” Louis said, seriously, at loss of any other words. The kettle came to the rescue, most fortunately, and he instead threw himself into making a good cuppa. If Louis could do one thing, just one, on this earth, it was making a fucking outstanding cup of tea. He wants it written on his grave, please.

“Here you are,” Louis said, handing him the steaming cup. “Careful.”

Harry greeted him with a warm, sleepy smile, budging up to give Louis room in the dark. Harry wrapped his hands around the cup, their entity enveloping the whole thing. Breathing in deeply, he rested his nose on the lip of the mug, closing his eyes and looking every bit serene. Louis couldn't imagine how. It was very cold in the garage now, their icy breath dotting their words with fervour. Words spoken quickly, passionately, looked like the chimney of a factory. Big billows of white rolling out. In the quiet tones they used, (though no reason asked of their quietness for they were entirely alone) the white mist escaped with the grace of a ballerina's ribbon.

Their fingertips scorched, the tips of their noses bitten with iciness. The soothing, warm balm of tea and stale biscuits made their meal, made the depths of their stomachs glow. It felt too intimate an occasion to be sharing with a bloke whose car you were fixing, but Louis supposed rather begrudgingly that it was better than being here alone when the weather was so terrible.

When they were finished, they stood up and brushed the crumbs off their laps, stretching out their sore, unused limbs. The darkness grew so rapidly, Louis had not noticed it until he could barely make out the assembly of Harry's face.

“I think I might...” Harry said, head nodding towards his hefty Land Rover (in all honesty, Louis had forgotten that this was the cause for all their bloody grievances).

“Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

“I mean...” Harry muttered, redirecting his gaze onto Louis once more before it fell to the ground. He appeared in the moonlight to be quite bashful, burying his shoe into the hard flooring. “You can always kip in the back if you think it may be comfier? I'll take the front, no problem. You don't have to be alone out here.”

Louis thought there could be nothing weirder than sleeping in some random dude's car, and so immediately thought against the idea, before realising that, well, nothing could actually intensify the peculiarity of this night's events in total. And so, with a nod so slight it would be undetected to most, he agreed.

Harry met his look and nodded, mouth forgetting to close. “Okay.” He said again, so quiet it was perhaps only to himself. Remembering his intentions, a clumsy hand fiddled for the door and, maybe not realising his strength, wrenched it open, the entire thing nearly coming off it's hinges. Louis snorted. Harry held it open for him, and so with a brief nod in gratitude, Louis climbed in on all fours into this cavernous giant, enveloped in total blackness.

**

“ _Solitaire's the only game in town_!” Louis found himself screeching, at a time estimated of ten past two in the morning, sprawled across the back seat of the most uncomfortable car in existence, eyes towards the material ceiling, hands clasped on his chest. “ _and every road that takes him, takes him down_ ”. Louis could not reach that very bottom note, instead decided on a very comedic warble, but the impressive baritone of Harry did quite a justice to The Carpenters. His voice was much like his speaking, deep and passionate, and he carried the inflections of emotion with nothing whatsoever lost in translation. Very manly and tuneful and a fucking excellent singing partner. Louis never really understood the art of harmonising, but this Harry knocked it out the park. He was the minor to each of his majors.

“You're good.” Louis remarked, not even a compliment, because by now he shouldn't have been surprised. After hours of mindless conversation involving families, TV shows, jobs, anything, and all Louis had come to realise was that Harry was someone that you were constantly on the precipice of despising and respecting simultaneously. His accolades were incredible for his age, with fantastic grades and work experience enviable of even the most corporate employer. His family was the sound middle class epitome that Louis had ever heard. He admitted to owning a summer cottage, for goodness' sake! Who owns a _summer cottage?_ It's a given in England that the weather is shit consensually in all areas, and so made no sense to Louis whatsoever.

He did reveal with no trace of sadness that his mam and dad had broken up, which Louis found to be quite surprising. He could sing, was stupidly modest, played golf at the weekend (Louis had mocked him relentlessly). Had the everything about the composition of the kind of boy your mother would love. But beneath that, had the dirtiest mind and the world's most irritatingly endearing laugh. And truly, Louis felt a bit blessed being in the company of such a high achiever for the night, because Lord knows under any other circumstance he certainly would not be.

These kind of people weren't exactly in Louis' very limited, very exclusive circle of two friends. They weren't the sort of person he'd cross paths with in this line of work, anyway.

Harry, bless 'im, asked Louis about his job, too, all smiles and courtesy. Louis must hand it to him then, he certainly did a great job in pretending to be interested in a mechanic, common as you like, who swore far too much to be considered anything but vulgar. But Louis admitted that he liked his job sometimes, and got to work alone loads, too. He confided that he maybe had once had wanted to do something else, but there was a call of duty to his mum and to his sisters. Beyond this, he did not reveal. Could not reveal, because breaching that line only made him angry, opened a floodgate to the swirling thoughts of _whatifwhatifwhatif_  that would occupy the back in his mind. He swallowed them firmly.

“I think that's quite noble of you.” Harry only commented after a long moment's pause.

Louis laughed. “I assure you, it ain't.” He gulped, turning on his side to face Harry, who was reclined one hundred and eighty degrees in the driving seat, his gangly body twisted like a pretzel to fit in. Harry only looked up at him, appraising something that Louis could not decipher.

“I think it is, Louis. To me, it is.” And that was that.

**

 

Louis focused his bleary eyes on the blinking clock, confused and disorientated. 3:43 A M it read in its garish red digits. Harry was snoring lightly from where he reposed in the front, lips pouted and lids fluttering. They must have finally succumbed to sleep, but Louis didn't remember when. There was no formal bidding of goodnight, no turning their backs towards one another, no distinct memory of any intention to fall asleep.

Louis thought they must have simply drifted in meaningless conversation, who ever finally gave in to their fatigue first.

He looked out the misted-up windscreen from where he was rested and saw the blue light shining in from the garage window. The pale moons cried through, the trees still and firm in temperament, the wind blowing no more. It was to the sound of this peaceful nothing that Louis closed his eyes and let his dreams reclaim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next update will come pretty regularly. From then on I'll be posting every week! P.s., I'm sure it's entirely evident by now how little I know of cars. Why did I ever choose such a masochistic topic?! Alas.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

In the August air, everything was still. The cold, sharp air allowed for no clouds in the bright sky to overshadow it. It gave good promise, spoke of pleasant weather. The morning had brought around a dew as fat drops sat heavy on the wispy blades of grass, the wetness palpable and thick in the air, the cool breeze carrying the smell of new growth and manure. Nothing showed of yesterday's chaos. The trees stood firmly as they ever had, like proud men who refused to be belittled. The baking flare of the sun had dried the famished earth of its rainfall, and so only the peat remained soggy and trodden. Nothing showed the movement of time: no sounds from the farm animals, who in the late hour of the morning had not stirred from their slumber, no cars humming past, no bird's song.

 Stillest of all was the car garage which lay on the stoned path of Meadow Lane. Inside the metallic blue hut, the buttery morning sunrise fell in through the window. The sun's beam stretched and yawned as it expanded, so slightly and slowly until eventually it dawned on Louis' rested face. He woke gently to this, the vision behind his lids all vivid hues of red and orange. Stirring silently, he blinked into the bright light.

 Before he was even fully conscious, he remembered. All of it, every last bit. Thunder, smiles, laughter. A boy, young, whispering. Wide eyes, wild hair, wind blowing. Drinking tea next to a stranger as Louis' stomach carved itself a new pattern. It was rather odd.

 He looked to the front seat to confirm and, yes, there he was. An eighteen year old boy, sleeping soundly and innocently, his gentle breaths a reminder of what had strangeness had occurred the night before. He was lain on his side, curled in as much as his body would let him, his cheeks smushed against the car's seat and hands under his head, one clutching in its grasp his iPhone. His hair was splayed in a dark mass over the head rest. His face was oily, his full lips – two buds blooming to the deepest pout. His expression was babyish with his eyebrows upturned in something akin to youthful worry.

 Louis looked away and sat up, resting his warm cheek in his hand and breathing. He had not slept in the presence of another for years, his brief sordid affairs notwithstanding. It felt weird and overly personal. He mostly felt really dishevelled after spending the night freezing his tits off in an uncomfortable car, with no pillow or blanket to speak of. There was a crick in his neck and soreness to his back that he could not rid himself of. He scratched his head, felt the greasy disarray of his hair, before bringing his hands to his face and rubbing life into himself. Breathe.

 Feeling somewhat mournful upon realising that the return to sleep was simply implausible in this God forsaken car, he stretched his legs and climbed out, careful not to slam the door. Not because he was considerate, no - he wanted Harry awake and out as soon as possible. Unfamiliar company was one thing when a storm was happening and you both had no say in the matter, but when it wasn't life-or-death compulsory, it was just awkward. He didn't fancy spending his morning on six hours sleep becoming acquainted with a guy he wouldn't really see again, not working that is. No, he wanted to go home, raid the fridge, cuddle his mum again before going to bed and never leaving.

 He popped the kettle on, his belly rumbling in protest and set up a mug. Two mugs, he decided on, in case Harry ever did wake up. He seemed like the sort of guy that would sleep through a concert. Louis kind of envied his ability to fall asleep so deeply anywhere.

 He absolutely had to get a change of clothes, Louis noted to himself. He'd been in this navy polo for two days and slept in the bloody thing. The result was, to say the least, not pleasant. He fretted silently in case Harry had remarked upon this himself, and was simply too polite to say anything. Casting a gaze back to the black car to see if Harry had emerged (he hadn't, thank fuck), he delved into a draw underneath the computer. It housed two aprons, a pair of thick gloves and, underneath all this, another shirt with the same white slab of a logo, luckily, which he promptly changed into.

 The cold bit his torso, the tan skin of his upper body erupting in thousands of goosebumps. He shivered, and lay his head back, breathing. He flexed his muscles, stretched his back, ran fingers over his arms and down his chest. His head began to clear. The cold, despite the promising brightness of the morning, made a refreshing contrast to the stuffiness inside the car, where breath had fogged up the windows from the inside. He worked quickly with his front to the side of the car, just so he could quickly cover himself if Harry ever did come out. He sighed as he felt the porous, noticeably cleaner fabric on his skin. Feeling somewhat less disgusting, he returned to the kettle and made two teas before taking them over to the car to wake Harry up, the cool concrete feeling soothing on his bare feet.

 He wrenched open Harry's door and inside came face-to-face with a pair of alarmed green eyes, looking entirely caught-in-the-act and scared at once.

 “Oh!” Louis exclaimed at the unsuspecting sight, his heart pounding quickly. “I was expecting you to still be asleep.”

 Harry was red in the face, sitting up quickly so his knees were pulled up to his chest. “No.” He swallowed thickly. “Woke up about five minutes ago.” There was something weird about his tone and demeanour, the over-bravado of his rasped morning voice. 

 And, of course. Louis clocked it then. The exterior windows of the car were blackened translucently on the outside, meaning Louis would have no way of knowing whether Harry was awake or asleep. And so... fuck. Like cogs in a machine, Louis worked out with a stopped heart that this also meant Louis was visible to whoever was on the inside. And he had been getting changed just two minutes prior. Fuck, fuckety, fuck.

 Louis felt his face flare red, felt the hotness to his cheeks like he had been standing on his head for ages. He resolutely resolved not to mention this fact, and sincerely hoped Harry at least had the common decency to look away whilst he was stood there, naked and shivering in the fooled illusion of privacy. Though something about the undying pink tinge to his neck and wide eyes tells him that perhaps not.

 Louis coughed in attempt to appear nonchalant. No worries here, Louis told himself, he had been in far more promiscuous situations. They're two guys, whatever. Harry didn't look the type to prey anyway. Why would he be interested in Louis body when he could clearly get any woman he pleased? He probably just felt embarrassed, that's all. _He's not the only one..._

 “I made you a tea” Louis squeaked, and in attempt to get this situation over and done with already, (because shit, wasn't it warm in here?) forced it into his hand and resultantly spilled half a cup of burning hot tea onto the poor bastard's lap.

 Harry hissed in pain, lifting his hips from the seat and pinching the fabric on his jeans to pull them away from himself. Louis patted the wet spot in panic, apologising profusely to Harry.

 “It's alright. There's no point crying at spilled milk, after all.” He managed in a rather weak voice. “Thank you for my tea. And third degree burns.” Harry added primly, and Louis was about to launch into more sorries before realising Harry was smirking, a brow lifted. He laughed humourously at the regretful expression on Louis' face. He returned his attention to the warm tea in his hands, looking happy to see it, and took a long sip.

 “Hm,” He commented, closing his eyes and smiling. “If I had to have anyone's tea spilt in my lap, I'm glad it's yours.”

 “That's a funny sentence,” Louis whispered, still at loss about the entire situation. He met Harry's irises again, his lips twisted in a smirk.

 “Maybe.” Harry stretched, a series of clicks emanating from his spine. “But you certainly have a talent.”

 “For spilling tea, or making it?”

 “I think both, in equal measures. What time do you open today, Louis?” Harry enquired, totally unaffected and very serious at once. He ran a hand over his chin, the sound scratchy with unseen stubble. The warm golden light came in through the front window and flashed across his eyes.

 “Aw, shit. I forgot I was open today.” Louis peered at Harry's watch clandestinely and grumbled. It was well into the morning, and Louis should have been open hours ago. He was so looking forward to having to do absolutely nothing at home. He was so tired, and essentially had spent his night follying with a client. A client whose car he would have to spend the day labouring over instead of sleeping soundly. Harry had nothing to lose from last night, he was only a student after all. Louis would have to deal with all the ramifications.

 He thought wishfully about bunking off, but knew that Mark wouldn't turn up and cover for him, most probably. Worst luck. “About now, I suppose. Have to finish that blue car over in the corner in a minute too. Its bloody owner comes back at three.”

 He stepped away from the door and let out a noise of frustration. It just wasn't fucking _fair._ Mark wouldn't bother showing up today, Louis knew that already. Mark had announced yesterday with some pride that he planned to leave for the pub last night and he never shows when he's hungover. He's useless in that state to everyone, Louis didn't want it jeopardising his work. The storm last night had fucked all means of communication, meaning he still had Harry resided in his Land Rover for God knows how long until he could actually get someone to pick him up. Louis couldn't even leave the place as he was the only person running it, and Mark would notice in the books if he'd not opened for the day. Staying up with Harry till the wee hours of the morning caused him to be tired and stressed and in a severely _bad_ mood and so, yeah. He was frustrated.

 He stormed to the front doors and opened them, their shutters revealing the glory of the midday sun. He squinted into it like a challenge, looking as far as he could into the fields yonder. Just as it was before, Louis could not help but remark. Everything in it's rightful place. And so, what was the point of the storm? Was all that chaos in lieu of nout? What justification could there be for such a storm if its course had not changed anything of considerable importance?

 He was relieved to see no customers waiting for him already. He didn't want to deal with the aggro that came with angry men overly-pumped with testosterone having a go for waiting so long. Louis ran a business and service of good repute, all achieved by the simple formula of: don't piss a hard-man off.

 He heard the click of the car door behind him, and light footsteps of boots. The clang of a mug being set on the computer table side. From the corner of his eye he saw Harry stretching leisurely, the olive shirt from yesterday riding up his tummy, revealing a strip of dark skin, exhaling in relief. Louis scowled even further.

 “I think I'm gonna ring for someone to pick me up.” Harry announced to nobody in particular, too loud to be for himself but a tad too quiet for a formal declaration. The clean click-clacks of his boots came nearer until he surpassed Louis, who stood firmly by the door, just leaning. Harry stepped out into the glare of the morning, hand atop his forehead to allow shade to his eyes. He wandered around for a bit, gaze still glued to his phone, trying to find signal presumably.

 He stopped when he crossed the road, right next to the field of flaxen wheat. He kicked a few stones in his way mindlessly and brought the phone to his ear.

 From this distance, Louis could not see what he was saying or to who he was speaking with. He cast a final glance at Harry, who was perusing casually up and down the road, his pace slow and careless. Louis dragged his own phone out of his pocket, thumbing a quick text to Zayn.

  _U got a fag I can borrow?_

 He hoped Zayn would have mercy on his poor soul and bum him a few before he could manage to buy some himself. Hopefully after Harry had his car fixed and payed up, Louis wouldn't have to worry so much about his finances. No, he should certainly have enough for a couple packs of smokes after Harry hands over the money.

 Louis delved back into the garage, rifling through the draws and finding the paperwork for the navy Toyota. He went through with his inspection on the jacked up car, and was mid way through fitting another tyre when he heard Harry's voice drift in through from outside, an indication that he must have wandered closer to the garage.

 “...Yeah, I'm not sure. No. The weather down here was mental yesterday, absolutely crazy.” Louis supported himself on one knee, just listening for a second. He wasn't eavesdropping, no, merely giving his arms a rest. “I'm at this garage near Doncaster at the moment. You'll never believe it: I had to stay overnight with this-” His voice drifted under the sound of an oncoming vehicle outside. Louis could not help but strain for the next words. _What was he going to say? Stay overnight with this devilishly handsome fellow? With this weirdo who slept in my car?_ “-Said it'll be ready in a couple of weeks, or whatever. Thank you. I'll see you soon, I love you. Bye.”

 Louis leaned back on his heels. So, Harry did have a lover. Interesting.

 He heard the tone for the end of the call and the sound of steps on gravel, louder as they made their way closer. Louis immediately turned round and resumed his application.

 “Hey,” Harry said, standing there awkwardly in the middle of the garage, facing Louis.

 “Hi.” Louis replied, face buried beneath underneath the bulky car, attempting to appear like he wasn't in fact listening in. He risked a look up to see Harry already watching him.

 “I phoned somebody to come and get me, so I should be out of your hair soon.” He laughed, soft and genteel. Louis finished capping the tyre and met his gaze. He fell subject to the sweet smile on his lips. Louis hated it. They expressed a want to stay, expressed a reverent dedication for Louis and patience. Gratitude. The smile looked like some offering of friendship. And yet, his words spoke the exact opposite. Evidently, he was in a rush to get out of here. This whole situation would be just another story to tell back in the halls of university to him.

 The boy in question seemed quiet again in the morning, so unlike the character that presented himself to Louis only the night before. This man had lost his courage, lost the brevity which came so easy to him yesterday. Louis felt he himself had, too. In the storm, when they were the only two to keep each other company, it was like they were something of another kind. Not friends, of course, because friendship took work, time and trust, Louis knew. His aged friendships with Zayn and Niall were testimony to this. But rather, it was like they had surpassed friendship and built on another foundation entirely. It was so quick to form, Louis had thought, and yesterday he interpreted this fact as them being something unique. Only now he realised that it meant unrealistic.

 The external factors that today had brought only served to sever the two from what he felt had unified them.

 Last night during the fall of rain and crash of clouds, Louis was tired and careless, in despair and desperate. He spoke his mind, argued freely. He felt like all his bones had dissolved in his body and it was a pleasant feeling. He whispered in the dark with this curious man who now stood before him, and exerts from the lonely and sad tale of his life that he tried to swallow for so long slipped out without Louis' guard. Louis confided and, in return for his honesty, became a confidant himself too.

 Harry was equally as bold, and under the mirage of midnight, he painted a portrait of himself that Louis had believed with every breath. Confident, wry, witty, charming. So charming, Louis could not deny. Louis always felt that no person could ever supplement himself, but Harry and Louis' ease did throw that into consideration and it had caused some surprise to Louis.

 They spoke diligently and candidly to one another last night. Louis should have trusted his gut instinct. In the sheer light of day, Louis began to realise it was only because they both had nothing better to do than each other. They were stranded, and so their responsibilities and roles vanished in the purplish haze of yesterday.

 Now, Louis could see the jut to Harry's chin, in arrogance maybe, or certainly self-betterment. What had appeared so charming in Harry's pose now only turned his stomach in distrust. For that was not charisma in his eyes as much as it was boredom. That handsome grin he utilised was only that: a utility. A tool. Louis could almost imagine how many times he had used the same twist of his lips on another just to get what he wanted. How many times had his lure bewitched somebody into bed? How many times had his false juvenility concealed his true intentions, had it ever coaxed a woman into believing it true? Did this lover of his know how Harry acted with others?

 Of course, it was not poor Harry's fault, but Louis', for ever believing that a bond could come so naturally, that conversation could spark so easily, that someone who challenged your beliefs from the get-go could not be your enemy. The morning only let Louis realise that whatever illusion he was under last night was an illusion made under blind belief and hope.

 Louis was still a mechanic; low-paid and to some, uneducated. He swindled people out of money, picked fights and got drunk all for a hobby. In the words of Pulp, because there was nothing else to do. Harry was... a different kind of man. A crook like Louis, most probably, but only when it came to the hearts of others. He led them to believe falsely that he cared wholeheartedly for whatever words they would utter. He gave them the feeling of being so important, that what they had to say mattered greatly to him, and should matter to others as well. But at the drop of the hat, he would flee. Maybe that's what being nice was, and Louis felt hurt because no amount of kindness of a stranger's could truly be genuine.

 Because in about an hour or so, Harry would leave Louis and bugger off. Maybe have lunch with his other half. Maybe get drunk, watch television, have sex, study. Go to a club, to a bar, to a friend's house. He didn't know. And all the while, Louis would be here, fixing bits onto his car.

 That so perfectly illustrated the crux of the situation for Louis. The strange tie he felt between the two of them yesterday was entirely fabricated. Two people of such different backgrounds could not feasibly enjoy each other's company, because eventually, ultimately, Louis would still be stuck here, and Harry wouldn't. Louis was bound to this land, to this shitty town like a serf, and Harry was as free as the breeze.

 Louis idly wonders now if his bitterness was something akin to wishing to be free himself.

 Louis wiped his hands on his baggy jeans and stood up. “That's fine. Feel free to take a seat, or whatever. I just have to finish this car, see.” He tried to explain without sounding like a total dick. Harry nodded acceptingly, but there was still a small crease in between his eyebrows where they came to rest low.

 “That's okay. Do you need any help at all?” He offered, and it was hard for Louis to tell just how true his intentions were. Harry walked closed, hands outstretched like they were yesterday afternoon, when he got Louis to let him stay. That innocent facade.

 “I'm not really sure what you could do.” Louis admitted honestly, scratching behind his ear. Harry was learning the art of business, and to teach him for a couple of hours seemed futile. Not only this, but Louis felt too proud to let his profession become the whim and entertainment of some rich boy. But, alas, Louis was not a total arse. He couldn't expect Harry to just sit around on the chair waiting for his lift.

 And, with due respect, Harry dropped to his knees and handed him a few bolts from the side, all correct in size and shape to secure the alloys that Louis was busied in.

 “Let me try,” he said earnestly, and from both their kneeled positions they glanced up at one another, nearly nose to nose. The golden flecks in Harry's irises, right amidst the mint colour which filled them zeroed in on Louis. He knew better than to trust them now. The breaths he exhaled fanned Louis' face, a faint smell of tea and sugar. His day-old cologne still potent and yet worn, warm, boyish. His mouth, broad and over-practised relaxed in a straight line. He looked genuine. And yet Louis knew him to be not.

 “Okay.” Louis spoke in the quietest volume. Harry smiled at Louis' words, the edges of his square teeth peeking out, biting into his ruby lips. Harry bent down to gather bolts again, and Louis just continued sitting, kneeling, unable to move and staring into the void where Harry had just been.

 

**

 “Okay, so...” with two hands, Harry pushed his curls back from his eyes, a confused look written on his face as he tried to gather what he believed was a grand amount of information. They both stood in front of the car, where the front had been disassembled. Harry had his sleeves rolled up, revealing the curl of his biceps, sweat glistening on the dips between muscle and bone. Harry took his role very seriously indeed and it almost made Louis giggle. “These wheel bearings-” he said, pointing to the rotor. Louis shook his head, standing behind him and taking his pointed finger in his small hand, moving it to the correct position.

 “ _These_ wheel bearings?” Louis questioned in his ear, smirking. Big Business Man with a Big Business Car was... Well. A bit shit in knowing about them all. Harry turned his head and met his eyes. They darted to both of Louis', flicking to and fro' in quick sequence, like a frantic bird. He rolled them eventually, a reluctant smile gracing his lips but looking so discombobulated as it formed. Louis let Harry's hand fall without a sound.

 “Right, I knew that really. So wheel bearings can fail if you've had like, an accident or... the seal breaks?” Harry summarises, looking to Louis for verification.

 “Correct. But it's kind of difficult to identify the sound of faulty bearings when you're driving, I'd say. Which is why most people never get 'em checked out. I also think you've got a dodgy one in your car.” Harry nodded most seriously, finger scratching his chin as if he was truly taking all of this in.

 “Got it.” He turns around, taking off his heavy duty gloves and facing Louis. He hums low in thought, his back pressed against the car, boxing himself in. “You're a good teacher, you know.” He smirked, cocking his head. He looked up from beneath his lashes, chin tucked into his chest.

 “Really?” Louis said monotonously, acting bored, avoiding the cosmic irony. Louis attempted to take the bearing back from Harry to replace it on the car. He grabbed one end, but Harry held adamantly on to the other, and so it was simply held between them, eye contact unwavering.

 “Really. My interest is sky high.” He said lowly, a look of mirth in his eye. Harry had a technique of saying things genuinely but always with an underlying motive of teasing and a hint of seediness. Really, it was quite cheesy, like the kind of person you'd encounter in a bar with all these prepared lines. Louis had since come to realise that this was just Harry's character in general, and that once you overlooked that and accepted that he'd probably flirt with a wall, it was quite easy not to take him very seriously. Now, instead of irritating Louis, it kind of entertained him to no end. Louis had quite gotten over the sense of betrayal he had felt earlier, and instead came to realise that Harry Styles, whether you endured him for one day or for the rest of your life, was good fun. That was it.

Louis raised his eyebrows and barked out a laugh. Harry protested indignantly, pushing his shoulder back gently. “Oi! It _is._ Why laugh at such a prospect? It was a compliment, from one man to the other.” Harry insisted, punctuating his and Louis' chest with the poke of a finger, gaze never faltering on Louis'.

“What can I say?” Louis said tragically, one hand cupping his cheek in faux-modesty. “I don't receive many.” At this, Harry's eyebrows reach his hairline, a huff of a laugh escaping his open mouth.

“Something tells me that's not true,” Harry said with a half-smile, and Louis thought he saw those eyes fall just below his own, focusing on something else for a second, maybe two. But alas, the strong gaze returned upwards, ever more playful.

“Yeah, well. What do you know?” Louis taunted prettily, beaming toothily with eyes squinted from its force. It was bold and brazen like a brag, right in Harry's face. Obnoxious, maybe. Whatever.

Harry observed this for half a second, biting on the side of his thumb, before he took a final step closer to Louis, chests nearly in line, meeting his eyes again.

 “Do you really want to find out?” He breathed, dimple indented deeply from where Louis' vision settled on the side of his face, his profile visible just-so. This time Louis was the one who felt boxed in. At this proximity, Harry towered over him, his lidded gaze which watched Louis and waited patiently.

Louis let his head fall and broke eye contact, feeling Harry's warm breath on his ear, his neck. Louis snorted softly, pushing his hard chest with both hands, murmuring a half-serious “Piss off.”

 Harry went easily with the shove, gliding backwards and chuckling loudly, but of course they were still both clutching the same round-wheeled bearing. Harry pulled it closer to himself, still looking mischievous, eyes all aglint, and so Louis by force went with it too, bumping softly back into Harry's chest.

 “Fix my carrrr,” Harry whined, sounding very much like a petulant child, bottom lip stuck out and eyes scrunched up. He threw his head backwards, letting it rest on his shoulders, and stomped his feet. “Pretty please. I just want to drive again.”

 Louis could not explain it, but he couldn't help but feel a little put out by all of this. He got Harry was only a customer, and that of course he was merely interested in Louis because he was the third party to regaining access to his car, but all the same he wish Harry would simply adhere to these terms more strictly. Wished he wouldn't goof around or pretend-flirt with him, wouldn't pretend to want to be friends.

 “You've only been a day without it. You'll manage.” Louis said, quite stonily to be honest, but of course the ray-of-sunshine Harry took no bloody notice, and instead made these bizarre crying sounds from the back of his throat that sounded similar to the mewling of a baby cat.

 “What the fuck?” Louis questioned seriously, as Harry continued to wail. Louis' eyes traced their surroundings around him, hoping that nobody was around to witness such a scene. “Oh my God, shut up.” But he couldn't help but laugh and the utter absurdity of this man's actions. Harry giggled too, sometimes breaking his antics to do so. As his comedic cries grew louder, Louis banged a light fist against his chest, embarrassed. “Shh,” He pleaded. This time, Harry did indeed cease his actions, both hands coming grasp Louis wrist, which fell easily in their confines, and the reformation of that cocky smile began to show again.

 “Where did you even come from?” Louis asked the spectacle before him. Harry merely blinked slowly, dopey gaze set in his features. He shrugged.

 “Cheshire, I guess.”

 Louis snorted and removed his hand from Harry's chest, perhaps a bit too late. “I knew you were posh.”

 Harry looked affronted, hand coming to rest upon his chest. “Posh? _Moi?”_ He exclaimed in the most exaggerated Southern English accent. Some would be quite offended, really. Louis laughed at his ridiculous actions and the posture he had adopted, back erect and a severely unimpressed grimace on his lips. “What makes you say that?”

 “Hm, I think it's the curls. Curls are quite posh, in't they? And your clothes. It's like you're trying to be working class but in reality, nobody wears a watch like that round here. Your shoes as well.”

 Harry piques an eyebrow. “My shoes?”

 “They're just outrageous, mate. Do they sparkle?” Louis asked most seriously, and casts his eyes to the offending articles. Harry twists his legs, trying to hide them slightly.

 “No. They do not sparkle.” He sniffed, light catching the glitter on his boot. Anyway.

 “Then there's your big fuck-off Land Rover.”

 “That was a gift!”

 “Exactly, Harry! Nobody gets a brand new, shiny Range Rover for their eighteenth.” Harry crossed his arms sulkily.

 “Some of my mates did.” He huffed, chin up in the air in that stupid arrogant way of his. He was a stubborn mule, Louis had come to realise also. He stood firmly for what he thought, and fought relentless for what he thought against.

 “Well, none of mine do. It's not a bad thing, Harold. You're just a toff, that's all. Nout wrong with that.” Harry reviewed Louis for a while, biting the inside of his lip, brows concentrated. Louis reddened under his attention, and so instead pretended to invest his utmost interest into the wheel bearing in his hands.

 Eventually, Harry spoke.

 “I do hope you don't see everything else in such black-and-white terms.”

 Louis said nothing still, could not make eye contact. Harry had a way of making him feel terribly ashamed, and Louis fucking detested it.

 “I'm not _just_ a 'toff'. How many hours must you need to be in my presence to realise that?” He engaged genuinely, taking on a very grave tone, before taking Louis' silence as a token to be left alone.

 Louis could not help what he felt, he reasoned with himself. He was the way he was, no helping that. His simply turned the wheel in his hand and tried to ignore that dreadful feeling of being chastised, tried to ignore that heavy gaze which Harry fixed him. It reminded him of when he was deliberately naughty with his father, vying for attention amongst the younger children, and the shame that was brought from being scolded.

 Luckily, not a minute into the silence, Harry's phone rang. He hesitated a beat before he answered it, chirping a cheery 'hello?' and walking towards the door to hear better, Louis supposed. He still stood there, looking down, turning that thin metal wheel in his hands.

 Should he feel bad for what he said? Louis didn't know. You see, he was shit with saying sorry. He didn't think he said anything _too_ bad, anyways. And they weren't exactly friends, he's sure Harry wouldn't mind terribly what some mechanic thought to him. Toff wasn't even a bad word!

 Harry walked in a couple minutes later, not directly glancing at Louis but rather around him, his eyes devoid of their usual gleam.

 “My lifts here, so, um. I'm gonna go.” He gestured a hand outside weakly.

“Sure.” Louis said without much force, willing Harry to look at him. It was awkward, that was all. That'd had a relatively pleasant afternoon, Louis thought, so why spoil it with some misjudged banter?

“Harry-”

 Harry looked at him now, eyes wide. There was hope there in the darkness of his eyes from this distance, but the firm set of his mouth implied he still begrudged Louis. He waited, and so did Louis. Both aching to hear the words that never came.

 “I'll message you when she's ready.”

 Harry gave him a look, Louis not wanting to decipher what it could possibly have meant. Harry followed it with a stiff nod and firm upper lip and when he was ready, as formalised as a regiment, turned swiftly on his heels and marched away.

 Louis did not watch. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor. He heard the start of the engine outside, a smooth purr and growl, and listened as it drove off, taking the last twenty four hours with it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15,000 words and I'm on chapter 3. Wish me well, children. I'm in this for the long haul.


	4. Chapter 4

Louis stood outside the pub and attempted to look busy by scrolling fruitlessly through his message threads. It was a Friday night and he'd been the idiot that was assigned with the job of picking up Mark when he was finished drinking. Whenever that may be. It was somewhere between eleven and twelve o'clock, and Louis had been stood outside for such an immeasurable amount of time that his hands had gone red, his knuckles dry and fingers stiff. He would not venture inside the pub to retrieve Mark, for any involvement with the latter's middle-aged, rough and red-faced mates made his stomach shrivel. There was also the minor exception that Louis was currently banned from said pub for being put into a headlock by one of Mark's mates one drunken night which had resulted in his unfair removal. That was neither here nor there. What can he say, he wasn't popular around this part. He didn't particularly need to be.

 

Zayn stood to his left, back perched against the low timbered walls. He sucked on a cigarette and looked out into the bleak roads and fields before him. Zayn never went to college, like Louis. Not a lot of their group did. Niall actually did go to college, and took a music course there. Never did him a fat load of good though, because he ended up working with his dad in a van-driving service which delivered bread. That's why Niall was never usually home, although when he did return, everyone always certainly missed him. Zayn spent most of his time smoking pot and in between this occupation, worked scant hours in the corner shop round the corner of Louis' street. Zayn had it worse, the poor git. His estate was intimately feared in Thumstill. It was essentially a block of flats, owned by the county council and inhabited some 400 residents. Its edifice was brown and ugly, and it towered high like something out of a fairy tale. There was no grass, no sign of life. Just slabs, endless stretches of mono-grey concrete. Louis, back in the day, had quite a lot of friends who frequented there. They'd sit near the elevators and jump out on the people who emerged from them, laughing and causing ruckus. They were often shooed by Mrs. Andrews, an elderly lady in her late seventies, whose husband had apparently passed away only recently at the time. This always saddened Louis' heart deeply, and Mrs. Andrews' profound anger at the boys mismanagement was quite justified upon hindsight. She'd come out of her flat in her blue spotty slippers and matching gown, grey hair sadly pulled up tight and a cigarette hanging loosely in her crooked fingers.

 

“Bugger off, the lot of ya! I've seen you all before round 'ere, how many bloody times must I tell you?”

 

“Piss off!” yelled Louis mate, Robert. He was elder than the rest of them, the grand age of thirteen, and his profanities slipped from his mouth as often and just as poisonous as the smoke he would breathe like fire. A squeal of laughs amounted from their group, which was mostly made up of naughty and neglected children.

 

“Yeah, fuck off, old lady!” called Louis, and it was the only time he ever spoke to Mrs. Andrews. She looked at him, at his childish face with blue eyes as round as saucers, and her eyes flickered with anger, before she turned around and retreated with such grand defeat. As she closed the door behind her, Louis saw her pale eyes fill with water.

 

Louis could not use age as a defence for his insult, nor for his ability to make an old lady cry, for he understood the context even all those years ago. He understood, with the same degree of clarity that was granted to him now, that poor Mrs. Andrews, who was still plagued with the heavy burden the death of her husband, was disrespected and attacked. And immediately Louis felt so shameful. When the boys exploded into shocked laughter and sprinted off round the corner, Louis stood at the foot of her door and considered knocking. Alas, he didn't. He ran off after them, like a well-trained dog, and tried to race away the guilt that festered in his belly.

 

Mrs. Andrews died after that, maybe two weeks or so afterwards. Something about a heart attack, Louis didn't know. A new family had moved in since, young and seemingly pleasant, with uncontrollable children and a crying baby. Louis still cast a glance back to Mrs. Andrews' door every time he goes to visit Zayn, and pictures her sad, ghostly figure just behind it.

 

“Lou, there's a bird over there that wants something.” Louis was interrupted by the soft rasp of Zayn's voice, and raised his eyebrows to see who he was referring to. Zayn's hazel eyes were fixed just to his left, where upon his own speculation, saw a petite, busty lady who curiously peered at him. She had a fag behind her ear, and pulled her skirt down by the hem. She was beneath a street light, shivering, an orange halo over her head. She was a familiar face, maybe Louis had gone to secondary or something with her. He couldn't remember. But she crooked her finger at him from her position of about twenty metres or so away, and Louis sighed.

 

He looked back at Zayn, who looked highly amused in his stoned state. “Best go see what she wants.” Louis mumbled apologetically. But Zayn only shook his head and a small laugh escaped his lips, the smoke falling from them as he did so. His eyes were downcast, his dark lashes fanned, casting shadows of the most interesting hue.

 

“Yeah, you'd better. You dog.” He laughed, and Louis smacked him in the arm. He turned around and sized up the lady in question. As he drew nearer, it appeared that the woman was a bit older than he, perhaps her early thirties at most, whereby Louis was not repulsed by her advantage but her skin was evident of wear. She wore a thick coat of lipstick yet was not under dressed as such. Not remarkably attractive either, but then Louis had never really met a woman who amazingly gorgeous to him. It made them easier to talk to though, just because nerves weren't really an issue.

 

“Alright, love?” He asked, recounting the possibilities as to why on earth he was summoned under a lamp post to talk to a lass he didn't know. She smiled in response, and coyly cast her eyes down to her shoes. She pulled the cigarette from behind her ear, then glanced up.

 

“Got a lighter?” She asked in that familiar Yorkshire lilt, her small body trying to find comfort in the cold.

 

“Aye,” Louis replied in confused affirmation, taken a bit off guard as he delved into his pocket. Zayn was actively smoking too, and so he really needn't have been dragged here. Mark could leave any minute and would probably start making a scene, which Louis didn't want any one to bear witness too. If not for the business' sake, at least his own reputation. She took the lighter from him and maintained eye contact. She was fair under this light, and Louis drew in closer, shielding the flame with his hands after it had blown out a few times. She winked at him in thanks, taking a deep drag, where her cheekbones remained prominent and hollow. She wasn't bad looking, Louis concluded.

 

Fair enough for a shag, he supposed, and after her lusty smile directed at him after, with smoke tumbling out of her red lips, he fairly assumed that she was up for it, too.

 

“Where you from then?” He asked, robotically almost, because although he felt low excitement at the prospect – any prospect- of getting some, there was low interest on Louis' behalf. He would do all the routine; ask questions, try and make her laugh. But it felt seedy sometimes, and boring, too. And all the while he was talking to these women with a particular outcome in mind, never once did he think that this woman might stick around, nor did he ever particularly want them to. Never did he think that she was unforgettable, or remarkable, or something remotely special. They never held a flame, none of them did. That was it for Louis.

 

“Doncaster, actually. It was my friend's birthday party, but they all wanted to go to the club in town and I didn't really fancy it.” She replied, her nonchalance far too overplayed, playing with the thin ends of her brown hair.

 

“What are you going to do instead?” Louis asked, lowly. Just enough of a hint to hurry this up, he hoped.

 

“Well, I dunno, really. I was going to go back to my hotel room.” She sighed wistfully. Louis had never been with a woman as old as she. It was quite nice to see, quite respectable. Louis went for it.

 

“All alone?” he breathed, standing close enough so he have the advantage of feeling taller. She smiled up at him, lashes fanned out, and pulled him closer to be kissed.

 

 _Routine, just routine,_ Louis thought, as he tried to forget about the crude shout that came from Zayn father away. He kissed harder, and with something like aggression, he felt down her back, clung to her, forcing himself to feel something outstanding. He reasoned, as he leaned her against the stalk of the street light, that the more he put into it, the more he'd get back. The girl laughed with a hint of surprise at his vigour, lacing her hands around his neck and slowing the pace. Her kissing style was pleasant, if a bit lacklustre, and when they had broken apart, she asked him if he wished to join him.

 

“I can drive,” he promised, eyes burning into hers.

 

As Louis started the car and put it into reverse, giving a weak smile to Zayn's obnoxious, sarcastic wave. Mark would be fucking furious when he found out. Louis gulped. He wasn't scared of Mark, don't get him wrong. But he was his employer after all, and he was married to his mum. He fathered his sisters. He didn't want to piss him off if it could be helped. He prayed Zayn would cover for him, say he got ill maybe.

 

A hand on his thigh brought him the present and he was relieved. By the time they reached the woman's hotel, whose name he never acquired, he raced her upstairs, slamming the door and kissing her neck, her mouth, breasts, every part of her he could. They moved to the bed, her writhing beneath him as she pulled his hair hard and dragged her nails down his back. He hadn't done this often: three times to be exact. All different women, all never seen again. It was the same rough and loveless affair, and each time a hope in Louis ignited that the way he felt could ever change.

 

He screwed his eyes shut and nuzzled her neck, mouth slack and unmoving, animalistic in his nature with no sense of thought for who he was fucking. He banished all intrusive images that threatened to enter the his mind as was wont during times like this. He urged himself to think of the lithe girl beneath him; so small and timid now as she lie in bed, nothing like the gregarious woman he had seen just hours previous. He expected she thought the same of him, none of their earlier courtship visible now. Her mouth was pursed and she avoided his eye, and they moved with lack of conjunction, an omission of passion, the small bed wheezing with strain as the night closed in on the two of them, the sound blotting the impeding panic that clouded Louis' mind so fervently.

 

***

 

_Ring ring. Ring ring._

 

And then a voice:

 

“ _Hello?”_

 

Louis took a breath. It had been a week since he last contacted this particular client, and still felt unease under the idea of having a conversation with them again. Begrudgingly, Louis had come to the realisation that, yeah, maybe he'd acted like a bit of a twat with Harry last time they had spoken. Maybe calling, or rather implying, someone was a good-for-nothing rich boy could be a little hard to hear for some. Louis didn't mean it though, not really.

 

Harry was clever, it was as clear as day. He was a business expert before he'd even graduated and his composure and skill and charm was... well, it was refreshing. Different from all the tossers round here, whose idea of a good job was working in the local and pulling a pint, or the nearby builders yard.

 

He swallowed heavily, and hoped the recipient couldn't hear.

 

“Is this, er, Harry Styles?” He asked. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He could hear by the voice, which carried the same low intonation and perfect politeness as it had some time ago, that Harry was indeed on the other end of the line. He internally cringed.

 

“ _Yes. Who's calling?”_ asked the other cautiously. He didn't remember Louis' voice?

 

Why was Louis so shit at this? Why did Louis _care?_ He didn't give a shit what prissy Harry Styles thought of him. They'd never have to see each other again after this whole ordeal was over. And yet... And yet, Louis could not help but think back to the time, only a handful of days ago merely, when they had spent the night together conspiring, their backs pressed against the cool metal of the car. When they had slept on Harry's leather seats and their frosted breath was the picture to accompany their words, their stories, their laughs. It was just strange really. The memory adopted something akin to nostalgia, where Louis remembered the blue hue of the room so vividly; the dimple in Harry's cheek and the low light contrasting his eyes and lashes. But the chances of a random bloke turning up on your doorstep was not something that happened regularly and so rationally, Louis should really learn to let it go.

 

“It's Louis Tomlinson. I'm your-” shit, what was he? Certainly nothing significant. Not even a friend, really. “Your mechanic,” he finished lamely. “I got your parts ordered and-”

 

Harry coughed and Louis abruptly ceased. “ _Oh, right. So like, it's not fixed yet?_ ”

 

Erm, blunt. Okay.

 

“I mean, not yet. No. But I just wanted to let you know your parts were ordered. So. You know, not too long to wait now.” The silence that ensued was punishment enough in Louis' gut. His reason for calling sounded much more substantial in his own head. He heard a woman faintly in the background on Harry's end; a soothing voice of a similar dialect, and Louis strained to hear her words in terror of not hearing anything at all.

 

“ _Right.”_ Harry finalised. And at that, the conversation had effectively ended. Finished. Louis should hang up, really. Under conversational normativity, that would be the perfect time to hang up. However, Louis' thumb made no such move towards the 'end call' on his screen, and instead he stood there, shivering in his t-shirt in the middle of the garage, watching the grey sky churn and stir.

 

“Yeah, I mean. Who needs parts, right, when your car's buggered? Not like it is buggered-! I'll fix it but,” Louis sighed. “Sorry-”

 

“ _Look, Louis, I'm in a bit of a rush. Sorry. Keep me up to date, yeah?”_

 

Louis bet it was that girl that had picked him up a couple of days ago. He wondered idly what she looked like.

 

Oh, Louis was a nuisance. Louis was a nuisance, for fuck's sake. Where was Zayn when you needed him, his fingers itched for a cigarette or summat.

 

“Yeah, no worries. Just thought I'd tell you. I'll let you go now-”

 

But by the time he had begun another session of stupid, endless, meaningless rambles, Mr. Styles had hung up, and Louis held the phone to his ear in the silence. He sighed.

 

Bad relationships with clients was not what Louis strived for. And sure, Louis had no issues with telling a couple of the difficult ones to fuck right off, but there was no reason why Harry and Louis should part on terms anything less than professional. Where had it all gone so sour? When did Louis find himself giving a toss about some random bloke with a ridiculous mop of curly hair?

 

He was good for a conversation, true. His face was of a handsome nature, of course. That was a truth common to everybody's knowledge, though. Humans are naturally more endeared to things that are good looking, it's just innate. They'd gotten on well, Louis though, and so why was Harry being so bloody unfriendly? It was preposterous.

 

Louis had every right to call him again, to state that their deal was over and it was for the best. Harry would say he'd take his business elsewhere and leave some bad reviews on websites that nobody in this town ever looks at. It was whatever, Louis didn't care about that shit. But the audacity, he seethed, that Harry Styles could demand refuge in a thunderstorm and have his car fixed, to fucking sleep in his garage and take his tea, and then be so callous toward him a week after?

 

Now, Louis wasn't exactly an expert on chivalry and the likes, but even he thought it was a bit bloody cheeky.

 

He turned to the black metallic hunk of a car behind him, pushing his phone in the pockets of his overalls. There wasn't much he could do about it, really. Not until the parts came in. He could possibly give it a bit of a tidy and wash, and then at least he'd add it onto the final bill and Harry would be impressed and Louis will get paid. Win-win.

 

There wasn't really much else to do in the garage. Louis hadn't been home yet actually, as he came straight from his hook-up, and so didn't know where Mark was. He didn't turn up, that's for sure. So Louis got to work polishing and buffing the car, and removed a minute scratch which Louis would most definitely be charging for. Scratch removal was a pain in the arse. He gave the interior a hoover and once finished, had a swift look around the garage, before having a peek in his glove compartment to see what CDs Harry liked to listen to.

 

The results were quite surprising. A lot of Beatles, which, yeah. He did seem the hipster type. A couple of Bowie's, the Weeknd, the Eagles and a few indie bands.

 

He went to the garage safes and took out Harry's key, before sticking it in the ignition and popping in one of Harry's CDs into the sound system, David Gray's Greatest Hits. It reminded him of his mum, singing This Year's Love in the kitchen to herself when he was a bit younger, after his dad left and stuff. He wondered somewhere in the back of his mind if part of the reason he's so fucked up was because of him. Why he couldn't trust anybody, why he was so protective of his family, why he hated Mark so much. Why he was incapable of the slightest bit of feeling and love.

 

But love is a foolish game, innit? Louis never understood it, probably never would. Why would you trust someone so blindingly not to hurt you, when you know it can't possibly be true. Someone said all things must come to an end. All things shall pass. His mum trusted lots of people, and she and Louis watched them all wander off somewhere else, for bigger, better things. His own dad who couldn't deal with a kid at his young age. Dan for a younger woman. Chris for a job and so it was only a matter of time before Mark did the same. And yet every time one left, another would take his place, with Jo vowing that this time it was different, this time she was even _crazier about him._

 

With all that in the backdrop, Louis was not going to suffer the same fall. He would watch him mum do it, because you can't tell people who they can love, but Louis knew better. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve like Jo, he wore it tucked away and cradled, where nobody would ever touch.

 

David Gray crooned the ballad of Sail Away.

 

 _'_ _Crazy skies all wild above me now, winter howling at my face, and everything I held so dear disappeared without a trace'._

 

Louis laughed. He kicked his feet up on the dash board and sat in a strangers car, the space still smelling like Harry, so faintly he could barely breathe under it. He thought about going home, and his stomach twisted with unease. He just didn't know how Mark would react, if he'd be angry or understanding. Maybe he'd give him a pat on the back for pulling a girl. He always had his doubts about Louis, so sometimes it was nice just rubbing it in his smug little face.

 

He managed to get through the entire album in a half state of conciousness, a heavy feeling in his stomach just light enough not to feel like depression. He turned the stereo off and locked up again, before deciding to take an early one. He closed up, switching off the lights and swinging the bolts in his hand. He gave one final glance to the black Rover, gleaming mischievously under the flecks of light outside. Just another job, he thought. Just another duty.

 

 

It was later – much later, Louis thought. Louis was really fucking drunk. He couldn't stand. He couldn't think. Didn't wanna. Can't.

 

Mark.

 

Louis was back sitting in the garage, back inside that big Range Rover. Harry's car? Yeah, it was Harry's. Yes, now Louis remembered: he was supposed to be fixing it. But how could he fix the car drunk? No, he'll do it tomorrow, when he's better and not so angry.

 

Mark and Louis had gotten into a fight that night and Louis had gone the first place he could think, the only place that really did feel his. The garage was where he went when he had nowhere else to be, or wanted some peace and quiet.

 

He drove like a maniac on the way here, blood clotted in his nose, lips split and cheeks cold with where the wind touched upon them. He stopped off at the shop where Zayn worked, but he wasn't on duty. Maybe it was a good thing, Louis thought, because Zayn would've have just asked questions he knew the answers to. The check-out girl - poor thing couldn't have been more than eighteen – ogled him, horrified, as she quietly observed this fucking loser and bagged him a bottle of vodka.

 

And here he was now. In the black car, drunk to the bottom of his stomach, incapable of coherency but still ridden with hatred. He wasn't sad, or upset or hurt. He was just so angry, and he was never great with dealing with anger.

 

Warning bells had rung as soon as Louis reached the doorstep to his house. As he entered his key, the door opened in front of him. Mark slipped out from the inside, wearing a scruffy grey vest and closed the door behind him, crossing his arms. Louis did not hold his breath for his expectations.

 

“Louis, mate...” Mark sighed, shaking his head with the vigour of a school master who was chastising a naughty child. Louis laughed.

 

“Look, I know what you're gonna say. Sorry I couldn't come get you yesterday, I got caught up _._ Some _bird,_ you know how it is.” Louis smirked with one corner of his mouth, waggling his eyebrows with heavy implication. It wasn't an attempt to rally Mark's support, but rather to passively express that Louis prioritises a stranger over Mark. Hell, he prioritises anybody over him.

 

“Yeah, well. You didn't come home, your mum were worried.”

 

“Was she not more worried about you?” Louis asked and Mark tilted his head, eyebrows raised in mock-amusement. He had the most irritating tactic of trying to promote an image of cleverness which was always belied entirely by whatever he said next.

 

“Third time at the pub this week, innit? Don't think I haven't heard your little tiffs.” Louis continued and attempted to step round him, inside the house. He had no time for this bullshit. He didn't want a fight and had no intention to do so. But from the corner of his eye, he Mark huff and puff with red fervour.

 

Mum and Mark did not have little tiffs, and Louis' irony dug deep into Mark's pride.

 

She'd threatened to kick Mark out several times for his drinking, his not turning up to work. They'd scream and scream, because his mum was like him and could argue for hours. But to deal with the stress, with the critique and the realisation of his crumbling relationship which he had self destructed with his own thick hands, Mark turned to the pub.

 

Louis started towards the house but Mark grabbed onto Louis' arm as he turned away with grip like iron, and Louis had no choice but to spin around and face him. Louis tried to protest but Mark stepped closely, his breath warm and eyes sharp.

 

“You ain't got any right to talk about what your mother and I discuss in private.” Mark growled, his masculinity a guise for childish petulance. Louis rolled his eyes.

 

“You're right. So leave me out of it, I don't want _nout_ to do with what you're doing to yourself.”

Mark's grip ached his arm, he could feel the bruises forming. His stare was cold; a blue so unemotional, so unfeeling, that Louis was nearly scared. “Get off me.” He tugged his arm away and tried to walk back inside.

 

“You need to change that attitude of yours, and learn some fucking respect. The way you go around talking to everybody, as if you're not some twenty-something boy, acting like the big man. You need to grow up.” Louis laughed, forced himself to do so, though nothing was funny to him. He was trying to control himself, felt the slight shake of his hands and spike in his breathing, but forced himself to stay calm.

 

“Whatever mate. You won't be around much longer, so I wouldn't worry about it.” He heard the shortness of breath behind him, and so quickly attempted to walk away, but felt the back of his work polo be pulled from behind. Louis spun around and seized both of Mark's hands, which were obscenely stronger than his own.

 

“Get off me, you prick!” Louis, in desperation, kicked Mark away from himself, which only served Mark to think that Louis was trying to attack back.

 

“It'll be you before me, son, have no doubt of that. We all want rid of you, you useless shit. Bumming round 'ere, doing nout, prancing around with God knows what kind of people. Who _do_ you think you are, Louis Tomlinson? Jo and I can't wait to see the last of yer.” At that, Mark gave Louis the final push away from himself, smoothing his hair in vain attempt, his face red with exertion and strolled back into the house.

 

Louis felt it like a knife in the chest. He refused to believe it. He stood there, heart beating and breaking with each pulse, chest constricting painfully. Mark couldn't mean that. He didn't, it was impossible. Jo had always loved him, would promise always to. She wouldn't give up her son for Mark, and certainly she'd never tell Mark such. And yet, the certainty with which he delivered it made the fact undoubted. Mark was so certain of this fact, was so vindictive as he spoke it, that Louis could not help but wonder if it was true. Louis looked up from where he was standing, shaking and dishevelled with his blood flowing with adrenaline.

 

He was not aware of his actions until he did them.

 

He ran and jumped onto Mark's retreating figure, who fell on the impact and cried out. One of the girls had appeared at the door step and was crying, and Louis heard another call their mum. Once on the floor, Louis had the vantage point to lunge at what he could. Mark defended himself fully, and Louis felt what might have been a blow to the nose in the scuffle.

 

He felt someone pull his opponent back, and he looked into the eyes of his savour. Jo, his mother, who stood there with something akin to terror on her face and she dragged her husband's struggling body away. His eyes scanned the scene before him, what he had omitted before. His sisters, now all standing there, wide-eyed and sniffling. Even Lottie, the eldest, could not believe what she was seeing.

 

Louis pushed himself up, scrambled from the ground, legging it back to his car and didn't look back.

 

And that was how Louis ended up crying in the front seat of Harry Styles' car, shirt sodden by his stupid fucking tears. He didn't know why he moved cars but he supposed it was something to do with the comfort of the chairs and the better radio system. At least, that was what he was thinking when he staggered over to the Rover.

 

Life is weird. Louis wondered if life would be so weird if he burnt this place to the ground, burnt Mark's name and all his legacy. All his legacy was Louis', all the work was his and yet no credit was given. Louis sniffled, sleepy, and scrolled through his phone. The world was getting hazier, more relaxed and serene. He was calmer now, and had been listening to the Eagles _Desperado_ , his favourite.

 

He stumbled onto his 'recent' contacts, _Harry Styles. 1 Outgoing call, 1m 24secs, 11 hours ago._

 

Louis, in his drunken haze, sorted his hair out in the rear view mirror, wiping his cheeks and breathing smoothly, giving a long exhale through his mouth.

 

He opened up his camera and posed ridiculously, all smiles and eyes, his face probably wholly uncooperative, with Harry's back seats in the background and him in the drivers position, adding the caption _Casually in your car aha._

 

He pressed 'send' and waited. He was too drunk to feel weird about it, and the thought of sending a client a picture of himself in their own car at ten o'clock at night would have to be a matter dealt with tomorrow, because right now he couldn't have given a shit. If it woke Harry up, serves the fucker right for being rude to him earlier.

 

It was some time before his phone lit up. Louis didn't want to look at it, really, and in the space where he had awaited a response from Harry, he had grown marginally more sober, and so almost didn't want to open it. When he looked at the screen, his suspicions were confirmed:

 

1 Message -

Harry Styles

 

Louis immediately inclined his head, taking his phone from where it lay on the passenger's seat and holding it close to his nose. He took a breath and opened it.

 

 _Louis,_ it read, _I can only hope you don't always abuse your privileges and document it to your customers?_

 

And, what? Did Harry mean it seriously? Or was he pulling Louis' leg like he did the first time they met. He wondered if Harry could detect if Louis was drunk from the attached picture, and what he thought of it. He found himself with a great smile on his face as he formulated a reply, the remnants of cold, angry tears cooling on his neck.

 

 _Nah, only in your car. It would get proper jealous if sat in any other!!!_ He attached another photo, this time with his arm strewn around the side of the driver's seat, as if giving it a hug, with his eyes closed in repose. He pressed send without caring if it was a bad photo.

 

Two minutes and his phone buzzed again. Looked like Harry wasn't busy tonight by any means. He wondered if he was back with his mum or if he was still hanging around locally. Not like Louis wanted to meet up or whatever, but he considered why Harry was alone on a Saturday night and so free to talk to Louis.

 

There was a photo this time, a close-up of Harry lying in a bed, covers pulled up to his chin and green eyes wide. A caption: _Ha, honoured. My car misses me btw._

 

Louis ignored the last bit for a minute, and without realising, he quickly opened the photo full-screen to look again, the sound of his heavy breaths filling the car. A picture of wide eyes and messy hair, spread across a pillow, the hint of a naked arm behind his head.

 

It was weird, Louis had never seen a guy in that way before. He looked for longer, up closer, and, rather embarrassingly in his drunken stupor, saved the picture as Harry's caller image. He stored it away then typed:

 

_Neafly done. Just a bit longer, getting your parts :) :)_

 

And then from Harry:

 

_I know, you phoned me this very morning to say the same thing ;)_

 

Louis blushed, remembering that stupid awkward phone call earlier. He put his face in his hands and groaned, long and forceful, then laughed because what the fuck did he have to be embarrassed for? He wasn't trying to impress anyone, and yet the heat to his cheeks had appeared, contrary to his wishes. And since when were winky faces alright to use in texts with your mechanic? Louis literally never used winky faces unless he was texting someone he wanted to/had banged. But Harry didn't want to bang him, Louis surmised after thinking lengthily about the issue with a great amount of alcohol swimming in his system.

 

But if he could do it, then so could Louis. He sniffed, wiping away the running of his nose with the back of his hands, effectively forgetting about the bloody residue which ran down the length of his arm.

 

 _Ur just luckty im a good mechanic ;)_ with an attached picture of Louis atop Harry's bonnet, his eyebrows raised haughtily and pouting.

 

 _Get off my bonnet, you peasant! x_ Harry replied quickly, to which Louis replied with another selfie of him sat on the roof of it, legs spread and laughing genuinely. Another text from Harry, _You spend every Saturday night like this? X_

 

Louis thought about this. He knew Harry was only teasing, but he reasoned that the answer to the question was a resounding yes. He did spend most of his weekends alone, with the exception if one of the boys had asked him out for a pint. The village was small and he was a busy guy. It wasn't his wanting to be alone which caused as such, for he longed for the companionship of another as much as the next guy, and yet his family issues made it awkward to return home and his friends either working away or getting stoned really limited the possibilities of spending a weekend actually doing something.

 

 _Yeah,_ he replied, with just the faintest implication of wistfullness, _pretty much._

 

He swallowed glumly. He must look like such a fucking loser to Harry, just pissing around in his car and texting someone he doesn't even know. He must think -

 

He was interrupted by the ringing of his iPhone, tucked into his pocket as it vibrated continuously. He was being called. He looked at the caller ID, and Harry's bright eyes came onto the screen. Louis smiled bemusedly, wondering what on earth Harry Styles would have to say in order to call someone like Louis.

 

“'Yes?” Louis asked quietly, awaiting a plethora of questions about his car, or asking Louis to back off and stop being annoying. His heart thumped loftily under his chest, and Louis placed his hand over his chest, just atop the casualty that was happening inside of him. Why was he so nervous? He'd had plenty of phone calls, business, booty, you name it. It basically part of the job description. Maybe not drunk, no, but the sentiment was the same, he felt.

 

“ _Louis Tomlinson.”_ Harry said by way of a greeting, and Louis breathed a quiet laugh.

 

“You remember my name?” Louis asked, because he was a total fucking dork, clearly. Louis didn't realise how much teenage girl he had inside of him. All that time with Lottie was clearly taking effect on him.

 

“ _It would appear so.”_ Harry drawled, and Louis could just _hear_ that dimpled smile, the one that veers to the fucking side with the fucking teeth because Harry liked to think back then he was charming. _“Tell me, what is a boy like you doing by yourself tonight? Have you got no trouble to stir up?”_ Harry asked, and his voice sounded so wonderful over the phone. Louis looked out of the front windscreen into the unchanging darkness, yet all the while he felt the world move.

 

It was probably all that vodka.

 

He held the phone tighter to his ear, actually listening to the silence, hearing the soft pattering of Harry's breathing. It was a reminder that somewhere out there, he still existed, and existed in the same time that Louis did. It was hard to imagine after the last time they met that Harry was a real person who had a phone and friends and stuff to do. Definitely too much vodka.

 

“Nooope, not at all. 'M a good boy, actually, mate.”

 

“ _Oh,_ r _eally? You sound a bit squiffy, I think._ ” Harry whispered, as if it were a conspiracy and Harry was the only one let in on it. Louis smiled, the back of his hand drawn over his mouth to conceal the smile that nobody could see. He shook his head at Harry's accusation, before realising that phone calls actually require audio to work.

 

“Piss off, rich boy. I might be a _bit_ tipsy, yeah.” Harry laughed at that, deep and fine-tuned, so Louis laughed even harder, uncontrollably so, until his tummy hurt and he forgot all about why he was upset, just enjoying the high of being drunk.

 

“ _And what's the occasion?”_ Harry asked.

 

Mark. Mum. Sisters. Oh, it came flooding back. The hatred and disappointment, he felt it prick at his skin like pins. He closed his eyes, breathing, and hoped Harry wouldn't hang up.

 

“Nothing. Never mind.” The line was silent, except for the low sound of the TV from the other side. He changed the subject. “Anyway,” he coughed, brightening his tone so as not to raise any unneeded concern. “When are you gonna pick this black piece of shit up? It's taking up all the space in me garage.”

 

Harry barked a laugh from the other side. Louis knew he was in his bedroom, he hoped alone, and the idea of comfort made him in return feel warmer. “ _How about when you fix it?!_ ” Harry laughed incredulously, and Louis bit at his lip when he began to smile again.

 

“Not long now, I promise. Is it you that's coming to collect it?” Louis asked out of curiosity.

 

“ _I'll come get it, yeah. Aren't you lucky?”_ He asked, a playful hint to his voice. Louis ignored this, instead asking what he desperately hoped he knew the answer to.

 

“You're not still mad at me? I'm really sorry-” He began to explain, feeling more weighty in worry than the alcohol could remedy.

 

“ _No. Never really was, if I'm honest with you. I'm just fighting a cause at the moment, trying to rid myself of assumptions and prejudice and shit, you know?”_ His accent had come through again, low and northern, and it was so easy to hear as he banged on about things so typically Harry and hippy. It wasn't Louis' bag, he could raise his hand up and admit that. He wasn't as open and proud of his personal assets as Harry was, but it was admirable to hear. “ _-and so when you called me it, I was just kind of taken aback. I know you didn't mean it badly though. It won't make me think any less of you. You're still a pretty wicked mechanic,”_ Harry tagged on, punctuated by a quiet laugh.

Louis smiled and rubbed his eyes, tired after his come down and sated with the talk. After a while, he said;

 

“Who else would phone you at ten at night, drunk off their arse?”

 

Harry snorted. “ _Definitely not Higgs, my dad's mechanic. He's like forty and balding. Really strict as well, always told you off if you had rubbish in your car..._ ” He paused. “ _I don't know why I'm telling you about my dad's hairless mechanic, sorry._ ” They laughed quietly, a bit awkwardly, and Louis closed his eyes when he could no longer fight the feeling to keep them open, just listening.

 

“It's cool. I was kind of having a shit night earlier, to be honest.” Louis mumbled this admission. “Think I'd prefer to hear about this geezer instead of listening to my own mind.” Louis opened his eyes when he realised he had let slip far too much for comfort. “Look, Harry, I have to go,” Louis rushed, nearly upending himself in earnest to hang up. “I'll call you when the cars done. Cheers, bye.”

 

He hung up and threw the phone on the passenger side, leaning back on the chair and closing his eyes. He felt his heart beat, then calm down gradually, reduced to mere regular thumps. He thought about the conversation he had shared with Harry, the texts and the quirks and how spontaneous all of their interactions were.

 

It was those thoughts of Harry, and not of his troubles, that carried Louis to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for the update lag. Have exams and stuff at the moment, all those boring excuses.  
> Thanks for bookmarks, comments, kudos; these little things make me so happy, you guys have no idea. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis's in trouble.

 

Louis sat up from where he was reclined in the four wheel drive of a dark car. The windows had fogged in condensation, tiny droplets making the air humid and dank. The light came in pale strips across his forehead, and the sweet sound of birds cheeping, totally unfeeling to Louis' suffering, sang outside.

 

It was early, couldn't be past eight or so. Louis always woke up at all hideous hours when he was this hungover. His mouth felt tacky, his breath stale and bitter. He shivered, feeling much worse for wear in his sorry state. How much did he put away last night? His parched throat craved some sort of drink, but he couldn't be arsed to crawl the five paces and pop the kettle on, quite frankly.

 

In the dank morning, the garage was still of bluish hue, and the car damp and sticky. Louis' limbs ached terribly, and between his lap there nestled half a litre of vodka, nearly all gone. That's right. Like a train wreck, it came back to him. He lay his skull back upon the headrest, blackening his vision for a moment of two to get to terms with everything. His brain felt like it was rotating, and Louis tried desperately to pin it into a sensible place, if only to piece together the scrambled memories of last night.

 

After a few minutes of deliberation, most of the night came up like blank fire. What little he did salvage were memories not really worth salvaging. But besides all of this, what dawned on Louis the most was that he'd have to work this bitch of a hangover off, and that idea alone was enough to make him want to scream.

 

The persistent pulse in his left cheek and bruises to his knuckles quite tellingly informed Louis that he had a fight with Mark; that much he couold remember. That whole situation seemed to be declining, and making up was as futile as it seemed, as both parties saw no need for attempts at reconciliation. He didn't mind hating Mark, or that Mark hated him. He minded that his mum loved Mark, and grew anxious at the thought of her ever taking Mark's side over his. Louis should be her priority. All her kids should. Could she really not see that Louis loved the girls, and that he only did what he did because of this fact? Because, quite evidently, Mark was not right for any of them.

 

Worst of all, how could Louis go back to the house when nothing had been resolved? All his sisters had seen him fight like an animal, his mum saw the look on his face as he fought and kicked and shouted. He had never seen such disappointment, such fear. What if that image of Louis in that one terrible, regretful moment was permanently imprinted on the young infants' minds? No, he couldn't go back. Not whilst the air of the house perfumed something so malicious and unfriendly that it stifled Louis each time he came in, choked and anticipating the next conflict. He supposed he could stay at Zayn's for the night, maybe. If he were lucky. Or maybe Niall would be home to take in a stray. Louis didn't really want to stay another night in the garage, it would probably start to smell a bit weird over time, he thought. He didn't think the customers would appreciate three day's old _eau de Louis._ This was _such_ bullshit.

 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, far too fucking disruptive for this time in the morning. Squinting at the screen, Louis opened it without bothering to check for a name.

 

_Morning, drunkard._

 

And, at the top of the messaging thread, Harry Styles.

 

Louis sat up immediately, heart hammering. He stared at the screen, his brows furrowed and palm shaky. He was confused, wondering what brought on the random message from Harry, but a quick glance at the thread's history told him that a slew of messages that had gone back and forth all last night. And the last was sent from Louis.

 

From this, Louis had the faintest recollection, but to double check, he went through what had been said. And fuck, Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, mechanic and customer, impoverished and the stinking rich, had spoken for what seemed a good part of evening and night. Louis had sent what can only be described as mortifying pictures to Harry, too. It seemed there really was no limit to Louis' humiliation. What on earth possessed Louis to make himself look like a complete and utter drunk twat, all lonely and holed away in the evening, taking pictures in someone else's car like a creep.

 

At least Harry pretended to be nice about it, so there's a win.

 

Another message came through.

 

_How's the head?_

 

Louis laughed softly, then groaned at the pang of pain that bloomed near his temples. Easy, Tommo.

 

Shakily, he drew his phone nearer and carefully typed out:

_Not good aha. Sorry for the texts, was a bit smashed._

 

 _Don't be silly,_ came the quick reply, and Louis blinked with surprise. _We've all been there._

 

At least he was being a good lad about it. Fuck, Louis can't get over it: casually texting a guy you've met once under no conventional circumstance, whose car you're supposed to be doing up and nothing more. Nothing more, he reminded himself.

 

Louis didn't really know what to reply at that, and his acceptance was rather startling to Louis. Harry had seemed kind of stuck-up last time they spoke, although his thickly lathered-on charm and good humour veiled this somewhat. He certainly thought a lot of himself. Powerful, unique, and all that. And so it seemed very surprising that Harry would be... really kind.

 

Again, the internal scales unbalanced themselves in Louis' mind. What was Louis' motive in this whole thing? What was Harry's? It seemed to boil down to one simple question, and that was whether or not Louis was performing his duties professionally. After the display last night, Louis felt inclined to negate this. But hey, he was drunk, he's fucked up. What's a little unprofessionalism between two men? Louis could not foresee any reasonable harm that may occur. He'd once told a customer to go fuck themselves, and so a bit of unconventional banter wouldn't hurt, he reasoned.

 

Not a minute later, his phone vibrated to indicate that Harry had again texted, not waiting for a response from Louis. It made Louis smile a little bit. He didn't have to work as hard, which was good. Louis always struggled and strained to make easy conversation and, well, it was just a bit easier with Harry.

 

_You around later?_

 

Louis' heart stuttered. Shit.

 

 _Yeah,_ he replied, before thinking that he may have sounded a bit keen. And for good measures, or to kill the cat of curiosity, he added:

 

_why?_

 

Harry knew the car wasn't ready, not by a long shot. Hell, the parts hadn't even come through the door. So what other reason could Harry have for asking him? Did he want to meet up? Louis tried to picture the two of them, mooching around and having a pint at the pub. Like normal people. Were they really normal people though? He wondered how Harry's cashmere jumpers and stiff Levi jeans would be swallowed amidst a swarm of middle-aged, working-class old codgers.

 

_Just wanted to see the car. I know she's not ready, but like. I don't know, just sort out prices and stuff maybe?_

 

Fuck, so Harry wanted to meet as in like, today? He hadn't even had a bath. His hair was limp, eyes tired and skin dull. He didn't particularly want to see himself today, let alone be regreeted by someone as pristine as Harry.

 

But maybe Louis could comply, just to show him that he could actually scrounge up a business-like persona and stop acting like a nut-job. Plus, not only did it mean that Louis could eschew any other customers with the pretence of his being busy under Harry's company, but it also meant that Louis could finally secure a price and sort out the somewhat inflated debt that Harry duly owed. Money was getting a bit tight these days, anywho, what with Mark showing up even less than he used to and customers few and far during this time of the year.

 

 _Sure, 2 o'clock?_ He sent forth, breath abated. He forcefully let it out. _No need to be nervous_ , he reminded himself with annoyance. There's nothing to be scared about.

 

_Sounds perfect. Xx_

 

 

 

 

Harry Styles had gotten more attractive since last time he'd seen him, Louis was sure.

 

He thought as such when Harry stepped into the garage with his leather Chelsea boots clacking on the tiles and a thin, olive cloth headband securing his hair from his browned, muscular face. His dark brows offset his pale eyes, his dusted rose lips. Louis didn't know why it surprised him, the entitled bastard had never been bad looking, but all the same, it was something that was remarked instantly as Harry made his entrance that afternoon.

 

Louis at the time of the arrival was on the other side of the small lot, liaising with some thirty-something wannabe racer donning weird fake highlights in his hair, and maybe wearing a bit of bronzer, it was hard to tell. The guy was aggrieved because he'd recently smashed up his Merc and accrued, to Louis' estimate, twenty-thousand pounds worth of damage to the exterior. Idiot. It then followed:

 

“Yeah, I told you that your insurance will only cover a bit, anyway. If you can get me a quote from your company, I'd be happy to fix it up for you mate.” Louis said uninterestedly, absently scratching the dirt from under his nails.

 

The blonde racer fixed Louis with a petulant, totally ungratifying, hard stare. “Where am I supposed to leave it, then?”

 

Louis dug his hands into his pockets, his pink lips moving in deliberation. “You can leave it here for up to a week, whilst you get that quote. And that's me being nice. Don't think--”

 

But then in came Harry Styles, and the cue for Louis to stop everything he was doing. Cue Harry grabbing all his attention in two seconds flat. It was unexplainable, but it was the closest thing to natural, the inability, insatiability, disabled to look away from the boy before him.

 

But Harry's eyes did not grace anyone with particular interest or speciality, but instead floated along the room in a swift motion as he strolled inside with an air of peace, gaze never landing here nor there, but often attention was given to the ceiling, or the bare floor. His arms were crossed, a black, short-sleeved tee hugged the length of his torso, revealed tattoos brandishing his arms which strenuous with his poise, thick and toned. Below he worse some tight, charcoal jogging bottoms, a brand unrecognised to Louis' untrained eye. Probably meant to look slobbish or untrying, but achieving so incredibly the opposite. He wore the same white watch, Louis noted faintly, and the same necklace of a small silver aeroplane. Oh, to be rich, Louis thought. When Louis dressed as such, he did not look so much like a Gucci model, but rather an aged addict with a nice arse.

 

Louis could hear the blonde racer from somewhere yonder, was sure he could be seen from his sideline, knew that he was most probably having a massive go at him right this second.

 

But you see, right that second, Louis was watching Harry Styles. He peeked from the side, underneath his lashes, a face schooled to reveal nothing, just watching Harry as he took confident, slow paces around the garage, mirroring his first visit when it rained and the cosmos was revolting.

 

It was not until Harry had finished his wandering and settled by Louis' desk that Harry's wicked eyes met Louis'. He nodded minutely with pursed lips and the smallest smile tucked away, returned the contact only long enough for Louis to give a virtually undetectable half-smile before facing away and urging his gaze onto the matter at hand. The blonde man had not exhausted himself yet, it would have seemed.

 

“-if they're able to pay the fee. Y'know?” Louis did not know.

 

“Yes.” Louis confirmed, and hoped that answered everything Racer Boy needed and more. To his utter befuddlement, the blonde man seemed to reluctantly give a huff and saunter off out of the garage, without so much as a 'goodbye'.

 

Louis did not turn to watch the man leave, nor attempt to call him back. Instead, he stayed in his position with the vantage of seeing from the corner of his eye in that direction stood one Harry Styles, still smirking lewdly at him for whatever reason.

 

Louis pretended not to see. He did not want to know, he did not want to be involved. He didn't want to give the attention that Harry craved, like an infant with his hand up, always calling out to the teacher. Similarities existed; the tantrums, the excitement, the confidence, the playfulness. It wasn't hard to see that Harry wanted more than anything to be adored.

 

 _Well, try me, Styles_.

 

Louis put his back to the figure who he hoped was still behind him somewhere. He arranged his tools in the box, and cleaned his work station idly. A minute or so of quietness passed, save for the scuffled made by himself. When it all fell so quiet that Louis wondered whether he was indeed alone, he finally heard a deep cough whereabouts Harry had stood, the two-beat clearing of the throat that made it pretty evident that he was getting impatient of being ignored. Louis bit his lip with his front teeth, his eyes gazing down with mischief _._ It was the first time he'd heard Harry since he departed in person. His heart beat thickly at the prospect that Louis was in control, even if it was light-hearted teasing that Louis felt so terribly obscene doing.

 

But again, all sounds of movement dropped from Louis' sonic radar. He strained to listen, but could not hear even the most meticulous of noises. Louis straightened himself rather slowly, as if to the realisation that, oh shit, Harry had not taken this as a joke after all. Maybe he had left the garage and buggered off somewhere else...

 

Louis was about to turn around before he felt two large hands secure firmly at his waist side, and a warm cheek line with his, rough and real, a breathy “Boo,” being drawled into his ear.

 

Louis squeaked. He turned around and gave the offender's arm a light smack. Harry laughed, still ahold of Louis, eyes hooded and smile broad. Their bodies lay close together, too close for near strangers. Harry's breath came out like a quiet laugh, almost at Louis' expense.

 

“Unhand me, peasant.” Came his own quiet voice in falso bravado. He grasped the two hands that had settled at his sides with more force than needed, resting his own atop Harry's and squeezing his warm flesh that felt so alien in his hands. Harry felt rough to him, his hands big, his shoulders broad and wide in their span.

 

“Peasant?” Harry smiled, eyes glancing to and fro' each of Louis', like a dog chasing a ball, excited and relentless.

 

“Yeah. You're all scruffy.” Louis grabbed the front of Harry's tight tee in his fist to prove a point, and Harry came closer at the force. Harry barked a laugh, before releasing one hand and cupping it to Louis face, running it across his jaw in a light touch. At this, Louis moved his head to the left, and so the warm palm fell, but it seemed Harry did not seem to notice or mind this.

 

“Says you, Beardy. You're really smashing the mechanic look. Good work.”

 

Louis snorted and pushed his hand away. “Shut up, I know. Need a shave.”

 

“Naw, it looks good.” Louis raised his eyebrows in disbelief, not really believing that looking like a hobo could amount to anything vaguely attractive. But still, Harry's wide eyes showed nothing disingenuous. Nevertheless, he mumbled a thank you whilst Harry stood there still, all to close and his quiet breathing fanning his face just slightly. Louis shifted, turning back around and searching for a few tea bags in need of something to do with himself.

 

“Want some?” He coughed, nodding his head to the two mugs in front of him.

 

Harry took a moment to answer, and Louis grew touchy at his presence behind him. Why was it so bloody consuming, the mere idea of Harry being near? He was a big personality, but it put him so on edge to believe he'd want to willingly be around here. Harry leant forward, just around Louis, and reached out for the cup of tea that Louis had just finished stirring, almost as a silent answer to his question. His aroma was strong: noticeable and familiar, like the scent of your favourite perfume that you forgot after all this time, but know it indistinctly when someone else wears it.

 

Which, weird. Enough of those similes, thank you.

 

“Tah,” he breathed (was he always so breathy?) and leaned back against the Merc that the blonde guy brought in, his lean body extended so effortlessly, so lithe and long, yet broad and defined. It made Louis feel so dumpy and short. “So, what's the plan, Lou-Lou?” He asked, bringing those playful eyes to Louis, a lilt of teasing about his tone.

 

“I'm sorry?”

 

“Like, what do you want to do? It's kind of sunny outside, so we can go to the pub or something.”

 

“I've got no money-”

 

Harry shook his head. “But I have. Don't worry about it.”

 

Louis shot him an incredulous look. “You came all this way to ask me for a drink?”

 

Harry laughed, his smile white and toothy, and ran fingers through his ends of his distressed hair. “Maybe I did, Tomlinson. Would that bother you?”

 

Louis thought about this. He was suspicious, he couldn't hide it. Harry did seem the overly friendly type, so it shouldn't really come as such a shock. He eyed him for a bit. “Why, though?”

 

“Because I want to.”

 

“...But why?”

 

Harry groaned, exasperated and amused. “Because, Louis! Because I want to get a drink with you. It is not so difficult a concept. There need not be any other motive other than I simply require your company, that is all.” He still had that stupid smile playing on his lips, the one that couldn't quite settle, like an uneasy tide, just rising and falling and never holding still. Louis stared into his face, trying to decipher what this guy was about. Was he really being so cautious over a measly drink? He should probably be flattered that someone would be so kind as to offer. It was sweet, Harry was sweet, standing there and kicking his shoes, scuffing them on the engine-sanded floor, lips bitten and hands stuffed in his pockets, waiting eagerly.

 

“Okay.”

 

Harry did a stupid little dance in some fake celebration, raising his hands to the sky like he couldn't believe his luck. Louis kicked his shin softly, giggling. “Idiot. We'll go quickly, but only because I want to discuss your car and it's really hot in here.” Harry held his hands up in a placating manner, those metallic green orbs humourously sincere.

 

“Of course. Just because it's hot, that's all.”

 

Louis snorted and walked past him, throwing off his overall onto the chair with finesse and turning back around to where he had left Harry, standing, staring, smiling, like he always was. He was like a man who could never be satisfied, never get enough of something.

 

“Come on.”

 

 

They decided to walk a pub on the side of Thumstill, Louis wanting to avoid the possibility of bumping into Mark where he usually frequented in St George's Street. The heat of August still pronounced in the way their flesh would glisten, their head would wet with exertion, their shirts clinging to their bodies. It was pleasant though, and the walk was cooling and easy. Louis had a fag in his hand that he borrowed from Zayn yesterday, smoke billowing as the cigarette dangled from his lips in a way he hoped wasn't too offensive to his passenger.

 

Harry didn't seem to have noticed much though, instead observing the scenery around him that Louis had become all too accustomed to. He especially liked the old houses down the Thumstill Road, the ones that looked out of place in this century with their thatched roofs and wooden beamed windows. He said they looked like the cottages in fairy tale books, like where Hansel and Gretel got murdered.

 

“They didn't get murdered, you tool. Anyway, you don't have this sort of thing in Leeds?” Louis implored and Harry looked at him like he was spouting two heads, before chortling, low and long.

 

“No, not round my bit.”

 

“Just a big stately home for you, then?” Louis asked cheekily, and Harry smiled, dimple prominent in his cheek.

 

“Nothing of the sort.” He crossed his arms and side eyed Louis, eyes squinted, just a hint of green visible. “Why are you so under the impression I'm some sort of urbanised prince, Louis?”

 

“Well, if you don't live in a mansion, what kind of house do you live in?”

 

“A Victorian terraced in central Leeds.” At his dignified accent and haughty attitude, they both laughed.

 

“I knew it!” Louis exclaimed, giggles still entwined with his speech. “Let me guess, you went to an all-boys independent secondary school, named so graciously after a Saint who no one actually knows what they're famous for.”

 

“...It was called St Aidan's.”

 

Louis knelt down laughing. “Who the fuck is that! Who's St Aidan??” Harry laughs loudly, perhaps at himself and he grew red in the face.

 

“I don't know! Four grand-a-term and I still don't know!” he exclaimed, and they both fell into fits again, titling and mocking one another. Harry protested that he hated his background and did what he could to avoid it, to avoid people knowing. He though it only served to segregate him.

 

“I think that point is the most evident in you and me.” Harry sighed, wistfully.

 

“What d'ya mean?”

 

“Well,” Harry started, playing with his necklace as they walked, legs uncoordinated and strides uneven. “Basically, I don't want there to be a rift between you and me just because of where we're from and stuff. Like,” He scratched his head, seeming genuinely troubled for a minute. “at the beginning, what you said-”

 

“I'm really sorry-”

 

“No, no, you don't need to be, Louis, and that's the point. You couldn't help it. But I want you to know that I don't think about that sort of thing when I'm with you, or when I'm with anyone for that matter. Like, when I started uni and everything, it was kind of a big deal for some people, my going to a private school, so I kind of just stopped telling people. I wasn't proud of myself. But then I met people who didn't care; individuals who were so like-minded as me from all areas of society, all different kinds of backgrounds. So yeah, I'm not exactly fond of my education, because I don't believe there should be special treatment or advantages for the rich or well off, but going to uni and meeting all these diverse people made me realise even more that it didn't matter.

 

“I'm grateful for what I was given, don't get me wrong. But I will go to lengths to make sure that you, for example, don't feel uncomfortable or feel like you can't be yourself around me. That's why it kind of pissed me off when you said it, I guess. Because, well, we got along so well, that night." Harry gulped, looking down. "Still get along well, and I don't want there to be this stupid, materialistic bullshit between us." Finally, he met his gaze again, held it strong and unabashed. "You're Louis, y'know, and I'm just Harry. Just Harry.”

 

After this long speech, Louis slowed to look at Harry. Look at him properly; not just his lightly freckled nose or the way his hair frizzed under the humidity, but the way he tried to dress so casual with his trackies, his modest black top and bracelets, all colours of the rainbow, which probably stood for a thousand different causes and charities. He didn't do it to look pretentious or be annoyingly sanctimonious, but because he believed in equity for everyone. His stupid tattoos which littered his arms and wrist, all totally out of line with each other. He was simply expressing himself, not trying to look good. The perfect balance between being himself and being loved for it. He was the most confident man Louis had ever seen, so comfortable and sure of everything he said, everything he did. He wondered what bliss it would be to live like that.

 

He looked as Harry stopped after a couple of paces, once he realised Louis had stopped following. Observed as Harry searched behind him with confusion before landing on Louis, that smile once again returning, this time more reserved. Shy, maybe.

 

He walked to meet Louis, befuddlement tinted on his face and wry grin. “What?” He mouthed, that grin growing slowly.

 

Louis could only return it, before looking to his side and noticing a bus stop, and looking up to Harry again.

 

“You wanna take the bus?” Harry asked.

 

“No, I'm just tired. Come sit with me. That little speech back there, though? I've now got to start calling you Plato.”

 

Once Harry's quiet laughter subsided, they sat down on the bench of a bus stop to shelter them from the heat, plotting that if a bus came, they would have to quickly run away in case it though they were waiting for it. Childish games, so over dramatic, wildly unrealistic and yet it felt downright naughty to Louis as he lit another cig, passing it to Harry when he held his hand out. The nicotine spread through him, elevating his lungs, the rush of calm. It reminded him of being a teenager and smoking at this very bus shelter with mates of his, wary for teachers that may walk by outside his school or his mum's mates that might drive by and see.

 

Harry took the toke with ease, never once coughing or inhaling improperly. He explained that he usually did it at parties and shit, never really took it seriously. They rested their heads back against the shelter, the hood of it shielding their eyes, sun spots still speckling their vision.

 

“Man, I never realised how long this walk actually was. It's like, five minutes in the car.” Louis groaned.

 

Harry slapped his thigh. “Ah well, you're having fun with me, right? Told you I'm delightful.”

 

“No, Harry, I don't believe those words were ever uttered, actually. Bearable at best, I think.”

 

“Bearable, eh?” Harry asked, leaning infinitesimally closed and bumping his shoulder against Louis, the air short and soupy. “Nah. I think you like me, you know.”

 

Louis turned his head fully to look at him, their noses nearly touching, his eyes flickering to Harry's own and back down. “You think?” Louis asked, blinking slowly.

 

Harry shuffled closer, gaze drawn past Louis' eyes and settling somewhere just below. “Yeah,” he breathed, so quiet, so warm in the web between them. Louis put his hand over Harry's, still on his knee, and squeezed.

 

“Well, I-” from this close, he focused on the quirk of Harry's mouth, red and shiny and full, that indent on his cheek. “I think you're full of shit.” He finalised on a melodic note, leaning back and patting Harry on his curls, bandanna falling askew. He leaped up, this burst of energy like he was five again, when it felt like caterpillars were wriggling around in his tummy, the way they did when Louis had captured them in his small hands. Furry, sickening little bugs that wriggled in his intestines, only growing more frantic under warmth of the sun that filled him with joy, the smell of the trees that reminded him of a summer which had recently just passed.

 

He looked down to the boy on the bench, who had composed himself so professionally, gnawing on the side of his cheek to withhold a laugh, perhaps. Amused, calm, untelling, tanned arms supporting him as he leaned back against them, long legs extended and feet crossed from where they met together at the end. His hair wild, lines to enunciate his smile, head tilted. And yet, all this paled to the look in his eyes, which in the muted light shone so beautifully it kind of astounded Louis as they danced over his own.

 

They held something that Louis was afraid of. Something wicked, something gorgeous, something that Louis hadn't seen before, not with any of his conquests or friends or quick shags. It was mysterious, curious, intriguing, demanded all of Louis' attention constantly and yet were like an invitation to treat.

Louis didn't know whether to run away or charge straight at it. Those eyes, so light and offset by the darkest lashes, the taint of his complexion, dark berry lips that smirked at him from where he rested. They captured Louis, and he forgot himself as he blinked back.

 

Eyes so alluring they were dangerous. Could Louis trust someone he knew so little of? As Harry's devilish smile grew, teeth biting gently into the plush pillow of his lip, Louis knew it wasn't really a question of his capability to trust. It was about his capability to resist what tore so hungrily at his belly, what commanded to be heard. To extinguish what bizarre, nonsensical need that could not be reasoned with and yet surged at the meeting of their eyes. Louis did not know what the need was, what it wanted, what it was to achieve. He would scarcely know what to do with himself, should he act on it. This was the peril, he thought. The risk. A danger presented so diligently in front of him like a challenge, should Louis choose whether to take it.

 

Harry seemed to detect this inner-conflict in Louis, and stood up as if he knew. His full height was a few inches above Louis, as so he looked down on him as Louis stood with the stillness of a statue, trying to make up his mind. Still, Harry's gaze implored and tempted, like he understood that he himself was the cause of all this havoc, and look at what he had done.

 

“Let's go.” Louis said eventually, and Harry grinned fully, his white teeth bared and eyes crinkled. Louis ran a hand through his hair, one hand on his hip, trying his best to remain in a position of control.

But Harry walked past him, avoiding eye contact as he looked down, smile still there, lashes dark and fanned. He covered the distance between Louis and himself and even more in just a few unwavering steps, leaving Louis to stare at his retreating figure in disbelief.

 

Fuck.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was a long wait. My bad. Any questions etc, feel free to leave in the comment section below. Thank you for all the feedback, bookmarks, comments, kudos etc. Love all of y'all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis is confused.

They end up crowded together on a corner table in a pub. It's the kind with plush, floral seats and a sticky residue left over from glasses on the beer mats. The sun was still beaming, magnified through the thick and dusty windows, eliciting the full heat of summer. It was a bit too hot to be inside to be honest, but Harry insisted he wanted to be shown everything. That, coupled with a dimpled smile and bright eyes, had convinced Louis enough to agree. 

They sat on the same side of the corner booth despite the abnormally hot English weather. It surprised Louis no end when, after settling onto the bench and putting his drink down, Harry was shoving him along further and crawling in beside him, all broad shoulders and gangly legs; he looked like a very large Alice in that very small room, right when she falls down the rabbit hole. Louis bitterly wondered how petite he himself looked in comparison. Harry's arm was warm as it gently brushed his as they sipped on a beer and chattered easily about how hot it was. Simple talk, nice and pleasant. 

Harry had mentioned how interesting the pub was, clearly a far cry from urban Leeds.

“Not sure about that, young Harry.” He said as he looked cynically onto a sea of old Yorkshire men, cradling a pint as their glazed stares turned towards the television, which was projecting a football match. 

“It is! Very vintage. Very, you know, antique-chic.”

“That ain't a thing.” Louis quipped back.

“Yes it is. I said it is.”

Louis snorted as he buried his head in his crossed arms. He was about to retort when he side-eyed Harry, who was watching Louis with a quiet smile playing on his features. Harry rested his elbow on the table so he was level with the other boy's face, palm against his chin and long fingers splayed across his cheek. There was a sweet grin still on his face that spoke of youth and mischief, of untold, classic up-to-no-good. 

“Shut up, Harry,” said Louis as Harry gave an amused laugh. Louis watched his perfect square teeth and how his lips formed around them. Was his father a dentist or something?

“You gonna make me?” Harry finally replied with mirth, eyebrow piqued and lip half-bitten. 

Louis downed the rest of his drink.

“Another?” Harry asked, already taking away the glass from Louis' hand. He wordlessly passed it to a pretty brunette waitress passing by and gave her a very alluring smile. 

“Harry,” Louis called, feeling only a little bit left out, feeling only somewhat like an attention-seeking kid who wanted to be the centre of everything. How very 90s Louis, he thought, as memories of all of Jo's previous boyfriends came back to him. He'd always act up around them just to remind everyone of his presence. He cynically wondered what had changed.

He really couldn't stay for much longer with Harry, he had a job to do. If Mark found out he'd spunked all of his afternoon getting pissed up the pub, it would not end up well for him. Hypocrisy was always a bit lost on Mark. However, the more he stayed the more he wanted to keep staying, wanted a repeat performance of Harry's laugh on a loop or the way his eyes would get bigger when he was saying something in earnest, or the way he would take himself far too seriously sometimes and end up looking like a pretentious, albeit totally adorable, twat. 

“I have to go to work, remember...” He continued, speaking into Harry's still turned profile.

Harry drew his green eyes away from the retreating woman and gave him a look. “Work Shmirk, Louis. I thought you were a bad boy.” He whispered, smirk forming around the words. Louis rolled his eyes, playing with the rim of his pint as he tried to come up with something witty but could only produce a huffy laugh. 

Harry grabbed his wrist and began to play with the buttons on Louis' cuff, rolling up the sleeve and pinning them to his elbows. 

“You must be so hot in this,” he whispered. Louis looked on with stilted breath. Harry then attempting to tickle him, casting a cheeky purse-lipped grin to Louis as he gauged his reaction. Louis sometimes got the feeling that Harry only ever did anything if it were bound to get on the nerves of somebody else. Louis stole his sleeve away and glanced up in case anyone had noticed the proximity.

“You're the devil, Harry Styles.”

A smirk answered him. “Is that a yes to the drink?”

 

Seven beers (Harry had the extra one, bless him), two plates of chilli chips and an impromptu sing-a-long to a forgotten Kaiser Chief's song later, the two boys were now at opposite ends of the table, a candle lit between them, leaning over a tall, shared cocktail, decorated extravagantly with fruit and straws. It was orange and tasted entirely too much like vodka, but Harry had bought it and free alcohol was something Louis never passed up. 

“Okay...” Harry said around the straw, eyes cast away in concentration as he thought of another question for Louis. He'd been doing this for the last ten minutes or so, the game being you had to drink every time you were thinking or hesitating and getting Louis very merry indeed in his reluctance to answer most questions asked. It had gotten fairly dark - only the dim, yellowed lights from a few wall lamps casting a glow over their skin. At last Harry pulled off.

“First blow job?” 

Louis tried not to spit out his drink. “'Scuse me?”

Harry was laughing loudly. “Oh, don't look so prim. You can tell me. Tell Uncle Harry about your first blow job.”

“Oh my God, please don't say it like that! That is so fucking creepy, Harry.” He protested whilst Harry was laughing heartily into the crease of his elbow. He emerged with his eyes glistening, giggles still punctuating his breaths.

“You have to answer - or drink.” Harry said, faux-stern and pushing the jug insistently towards him. Louis didn't particularly want to disclose his, frankly, pathetic love life with Harry who probably had sex on the reg with a stable girlfriend somewhere up in Leeds or down in London. Or perhaps both, knowing Harry. He also didn't really have an answer to the question because, well, he'd only really ever had one during a one night stand and it wasn't anything worth talking about. 

Louis pretended to play coy and reached for the drink instead, knowing it would wind Harry up as the younger boy voiced a small outcry. “Don't be boring!” Harry pouted, all knitted brows and crossed arms, and it took Louis a lot not to cradle his little face in his hands and coo at him. Definitely too much to drink. Being drunk with only a small distance between Harry Styles was very dangerous, he was beginning to realise. 

Louis leaned back on his chair, stretching his arms above his head and flexing his fingers. “I don't have to discuss anything with you. I am technically employed by you.” He said and hoped his voice did not give away the internal turmoil he was having due to this sudden realisation. He hadn't really thought of it that way, that this university kid was actually paying his wages.

“Exactly, that makes me your boss.” Harry said with a pointed finger, his dark gaze meeting Louis' as he smirked. Louis could feel a gentle hotness creeping from his ears to his cheeks. Louis was the first to break it: a brash, forced laugh escaping his lips as he shook his head. 

“Eighteen-year-olds. I swear to God, man.” 

Harry, however, gave an apathetic shrug as he played with the straw between his fingers and swirled it inside the jug, the contents sloshing over the sides a bit. He took a long sip, lips hollowed and looking somewhere over Louis' shoulder. His bright eyes roamed over towards the opposite side of the pub as Louis continued to steal glances at Harry. He really was very handsome, wasn't he? Very classically handsome, hard to come by.

He was displaced out of his reverie by Harry nodding his head towards the bar.

“There's someone over there that keeps looking at you.”

Louis followed his gaze and swivelled in his seat, fully expecting the familiar, intoxicated Zayn or perhaps even Niall back from work. However, he knew exactly who Harry meant as soon as he lay eyes upon her. 

Her brown hair was piled high in a messy bun, a shy smile on her lipsticked mouth, glancing up from under fully coated, black lashes. Images, flashing, of her lips on his, of his skin against hers, the way she looked as she came undone underneath him. Of a couple of days back, in a hotel room not too far away from where he was now, as he took the girl who stood just metres from him. 

Harry was looking at him curiously, his eyes glancing to and fro the older lady and himself. “You know her?”

She grinned at Louis and wriggled her fingers incrementally, a silent wave, just to him. Fuck. He smiled wanly, before avoiding his eyes and looking at his shoes underneath the table. 

“Not really.”

Harry's eyes flicked up to the woman again, scrutiny writ on his face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but clearly decided against it. Probably for the best, as Louis didn't particularly fancy running into an ex-shag, despite her being really very sweet. He also would rather talk about his daddy issues with Harry than his sex life, and that's saying something. 

“Oh - she's coming over. No, don't look!” Harry hushed, as Louis tried to act nonchalant by tidying the table they were sat on, moving ketchups and salt sachets here and there. From the corner of his eye, Louis could the the edge of her dress and the beginning of her legs from where she stood by them. 

It was Harry who acknowledged her first. 

“Hi.” He said, beaming up at her, giving his fully undivided attention. She, of course, fell for his charm, breathing a gentle 'hello' in her thick Yorkshire lilt. Harry asked her to sit down, shuffling over in his seat to make room for her, patting the seat and taking her bag which she handed to him gratefully. 

She sat opposite Louis, and at that kind of distance, Louis felt compelled to look up, though reluctantly. Indeed, she was staring back, hands clasped with chipped purple nail polish and seemed so much like a little girl, despite her older age. 

Harry, noting the silence that ensued, looked between the two of them. “So, you guys friends then?”

“You could say that,” she smiled politely at Harry, before returning her gaze to him. “Hi, Louis.” She said kindly, her voice deeper than he remembered from last time. He couldn't actually remember her name, which was really fucking inconvenient because her eyes brightened as if he just might. He knew it began with a 'k' or a 'c', but beyond that he hadn't an absolute clue. Maybe he'd be able to avoid it. Last time they were together, he just kept calling her 'love' and she loved it. He wondered if it would work again. Louis gave a polite enough greeting, hands scratching his jean-clad legs where his hands began to sweat. 

Harry, sensing some uncomfortable tension, began to play on his phone, screening a white glare over his features. Caroline threw a quick look to Harry to check if he were listening before leaning closer to him and whispering “You remember me, right? From that night...?” Louis quickly glanced to Harry. Still looking down. Good.

“Sure, sure. Erm... Catherine, was it?” Please be right, please be right. 

“Caroline.” she dead-panned.

“Awkwaaard,” murmured Harry from where he sat in the corner, eyes still locked on the screen, a wry smile on his lips. Louis shot him a look whilst as Harry continued to happily scroll through his phone, ever much pretending to mind his own business. 

Caroline, however, looked utterly crestfallen as she let her heavy-lashed eyes fall to her hands. Louis didn't think she could be too upset. Had the definition of a one night stand changed from what he thought it meant? He had thought the whole point was that you never saw them again. That was justice. In any other world, one without murderers and thieves alike, Louis would never have seen this woman again. But then, Louis thought, maybe it was a good thing that Caroline had turned up. After all, he didn't want Harry to think he was totally undesirable or too backwards to flirt with an older woman. Although he may not technically be interested in Caroline, surely he could at least demonstrate to Harry he was sought after, too. It wasn't just Harry who could get all the girls. 

Caroline's kohl-lined eyes returned to Louis'. 

“Of course it's Caroline. How could I forget a face like that?” he said, a watery smile on his face.

 

It was getting late, and Caroline had spent most of her time making herself very comfortable on their table. She and Louis had been talking inconsistently for the best part of forty five minutes as she ordered drink after drink. Meanwhile, Louis had stopped drinking altogether. It was a bad decision: it left a very sober mind in charge. Harry, on the other hand, had continued, giving the waitress from earlier a wink as she bought him beer. He drank it quietly, not making a single comment as the other two spoke. Louis thought of maybe asking him to go slow.

The conversation was overly biased on Caroline's part as she asked questions and received relatively unresponsive answers. It wasn't exactly Louis' fault though, he wasn't trying to be an arse. He did like Caroline, but he liked Harry more, and felt the more that she was included, the more Harry excluded himself from the conversation altogether.

It wasn't like when Harry had asked him lots of questions, looking mischievous and inviting and... well. You knew that he couldn't care less what answer he received, really, and yet you were expected to tell him everything, wanted to tell him everything about you in hope that you would impress him. But Harry's reactions would have always been the same. Louis could have told him that he was prince of England, and he'd have been met with the same response as if he'd said he was from the a block of flats in Brixton. He managed to give everybody his undivided attention, but at the same time treat nobody differently. He made you feel special but you knew you weren't, because everybody felt special around him. Louis wondered if it were because Harry had had a lot of practice in pretending how to care. He briefly saw himself like a game show contestant, where the host remains the same but each week a different contender appears.

Harry could charm anybody. He'd lean in and intimidate you, but in a way that gave you confidence to tease him back. He made you laugh at how silly he was, how stupid life was because he said so, and it was so, so maddening because Louis never let himself feel subservient to somebody else, never idolised anyone, but that's just how he felt with Harry. It was such a nice feeling to lose control of who to want. Of course, he couldn't – wouldn't - for so many reasons but it didn't stop the thudding of his blood and incredible energy that circuited inside him when Harry got that bit too close. 

It was a grave and stark comparison to the conversation now though, which had almost adopted an interrogation-type style. Not only this, but Caroline had, somewhat tactlessly, revealed that the two had indeed slept together. Not explicitly, of course - Louis did not think that Caroline meant any harm, with her big doe eyes and warm smile – but the heavy implications in her words might have had a stranger catch on to their colourful and brief history. 

“So, how are your sisters?” she said, after a couple of dire attempts to reignite the conversation. 

Louis looked up from where he was playing with the pub menu, tracing his thumb over the pencilled 'FUCK YOU' on the laminate sheet. Hm. How sweet. He raised his brows in scepticism in response to Caroline. He rarely spoke to anyone about his family, let alone to a drunken hook up. Must have slipped out. “I told you about them?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah. In bed.” She added on, giggling. Harry, from the corner of Louis' eye, winced a bit. 

“I don't remember that.” Louis said quietly, redirecting his gaze and scratching the back of his head. Caroline looked rather impressed with herself for remembering such an intricate detail, a sneak peek into the exclusive family life of Louis Tomlinson. Even Zayn, who's basically been his best mate since infant school, knew the bare minimum, which is that he can't really stand Mark at all. Zayn says he hardly goes round to visit anymore, sensing the direct hostility between the two now, causing awkwardness for anyone in the vicinity.

“You definitely said it. Who was it? Charlotte, Felicity? Daisy. Another couple I'm missing, you've got hundreds!” She laughed.

“What else did I tell you?” Louis asked, mortified as to what that foolish, drunken version of himself only the other week could have disclosed about his personal life. He hoped he didn't reveal that he had been imagining a man's hands, a man's lips the whole time.

She lowered her voice, biting her lip and tilting her head. “You told me you'd definitely like to do it again sometime. Me.” She added the last bit on, as if it wasn't already painfully clear. 

From the corner of the table, a loud bang interrupted any further conversation as Harry abruptly stood up, picking his phone up from the table where it appeared to have just fallen, moments prior.

“You alright, mate?” Louis asked, wondering what the urgency was. 

Harry straightened his top, putting the phone in the soft pocket of his sweats and giving Louis a stiff, close-lipped grin. His eyes were a touch too evasive. “Fine, man. Gonna head off, I think.” He said, thumb motioned towards the door, a faint dimple in place on his right cheek. It was like a forged, bastardised version of what he was used to seeing. 

“Stay-” Louis pleaded, beginning to get up too. He didn't want him to go at all. He was ushered back down by the waving of Harry's hands. 

“No, really. I'll see you later Louis.” He gave him one last long look, before he turned to Caroline next to him who was blocking his exit, and murmured a polite 'excuse me, please', before shuffling past her and out the door without another word, his stride quick and clumsy, the epitome of making a 'break for it'. The candle on the table flickering with the air that he had stirred.

Louis blinked in his wake, a smiling Caroline to take his place in front of him like the cat who got the cream. He wondered how on earth the day had changed so quickly. 

 

Harry didn't get in touch for a while after that. 

It's not that Louis noticed but, well. He noticed. There was a definitive lack of texts on his phone, except those from Zayn asking him for a smoke up on the weekend. Louis, with lack of anything better to do, agreed. 

“He's like, this six foot fucking behemoth who's so nice, you know?” Louis whinged, taking a drag from the spliff he was passed. They were sitting in Zayn's bedroom, a lava lamp casting a faint blue glow over the confined space. Oasis' What's the Story? was playing in the background. It was nice. Very teenager-y, but nice. 

Zayn nodded, with a look far more contemplative than the question deserved. “Yeah. But that's not a problem, right?”

“Not a problem as such, but it just makes you feel like such a scum bag. I'm his mechanic. I should not be liking my client. I should not be thinking about him, or wondering why he hasn't called, when he doesn't owe me nout.”

“'S he fit?” Zayn asked, eyebrow piqued in amusement.

Louis pretended not to be so shaalow as he was. “Yeah.” Louis released on a sigh. “He's reaaaally fit, Zayn. But that's not all. He's funny, really clever, successful. Independent. Beautiful, did I mention beautiful?” 

And he was, wasn't he? Perhaps it was the weed, perhaps it was the lack of communication with Harry which, like a typical boy, made him enjoy the chase, but whatever it was, Louis had started to find Harry... attractive (he knows, gag). Not like he did at the start, where he had kind of admired him like an artist would admire his oldest, dearest work, but attracted-attracted. And it scared him shitless. Louis didn't develop crushes. He didn't like love at all. He didn't even particularly like sex to be honest, from what little experience he had had of it. Humans were just something you dealt with, in his humble opinion. But each day that went past without even a text made Louis want Harry more. Maybe he was just confused. 

“Are you, what, gay then?” Zayn asked, a bit puzzled. Louis had to hand it to him, he was dealing with this whole thing rather well. Zayn had only ever seen Louis be interested in girls before. He kind of appreciated Zayn's attempt to indulge him like a gaggle of schoolgirls in the toilets might. 

“Not gay, per say, but I'm not opposed to men.” The weed made this so much easier to say.

“You wouldn't mind having a go on him, is what your saying?” 

“Jesus Christ, Zayn.” He blushed furiously, coughing on the sweet smoke. It's not as if he hadn't thought of it (he couldn't help what his dreams entailed), but he never actively imagined it. Harry's hands on his body. He would be so large compared to him. Harry kissing him with that mouth. Those teeth would come into contact with his tongue. It all seemed so weird, so far away, like the impossible. Louis entertaining it would be like him entertaining the idea of being an astronaut, or a fully functioning adult. Inconceivable. 

Zayn laughed, eyes slit. “I'm just asking.” He breathed out a plume of smoke. A pleasant few minutes passed, passing the spliff back and forth as the Gallagher brothers crooned in the background. 

“What about Leonardo DiCaprio, Titanic days?” 

Louis threw a pillow at him.

 

When Harry did finally call, it was a whole week after the whole pub debacle. It was midday, overcast, and he'd been working on Harry's car since the morning.

“Harry!” Louis answered, out of breath from running to grab his phone from where it was rattling on the desk. He was wiping his blackened hands on his work jeans, mobile between his shoulder and ear. 

“Louis,” Harry greeted, smile in his voice. 

“You've been... quiet.” Louis said, but felt like such a fool afterwards. Of course he had been quiet. Unless Louis actually called him about his car, what was there to converse about? At least, this was what Louis had tried to reason with himself. 

There was a brief silence down the other end. He sounded like he was near a busy road, the cars rushing by. A horn blared, crackling the speakers. When the traffic had returned to the usual buzz, Harry spoke again.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I had... business to attend to.” He sounded vague, his deep baritone voice trailing away at the end. 

“Oh.”

Was it a woman? Louis wanted to ask, but of course would never have the balls to dare. He wondered if it were that girl who came to pick him up all that time ago, after the storm. He wondered how he compared to her, if she made more money, if she were more intelligent, funnier. He wondered who made Harry laugh more. Then he berated himself. Harry does not fancy you, Louis, stop. Harry was straight. Even on his Facebook page (which, no, Louis had not stalked, thank you), he was with countless girls, each more beautiful than the last, hair longer than the previous girl in each picture before, waist smaller, legs stringier. He wondered if he skipped to the last one, it would be a sea of blonde hair on a broom. He was even kissing a few girls on the cheek. 

Louis was, in a word, a masochist.

“So, how come you rang?” He desperately hoped Harry would ask to re-enact another impromptu going out session, like they had last week. Louis couldn't remember laughing so much with an almost stranger. He recalls them, after one too many beers, putting the Backstreet Boys on the old jukebox which sat on the wall in the corner. Harry took one of his hands and grinned, and off they danced to the bar, receiving looks of amusement from the younger customers, and the odd look of disgust. He hadn't given a fuck. 

“I wanted to know how my baby's doing.” He said, voice muffled against the speaker. 

Oh, the car. Was that all? Louis couldn't help feeling disappointed. A heavy coat of rejection painted his chest. Louis wondered why he no longer wanted to hang out and was dumbfounded as to what went wrong last week. 

“She's okay.” He said, glancing back to the gleaming black spectacle. “Coming along nicely. Got all the parts-”

“Good, good.”

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, apropos of nothing at all, Harry said:

“May I see you?” 

It took Louis by surprise, and he blanched for a moment, listening to the rhythmic breathing on the end of the line, wondering what to say or do. He thought Harry wouldn't ask again after last time. Should he accept and see Harry again in light of his feelings? Or would it just complicate things further? He did really did want to see him again, if only to sort out what it actually bloody was he was feeling. He's sure he was dramaticising it a bit. Once he saw Harry again, things would go back to normal. But was this really a good idea? Harry was obviously caught up with someone else.

He took a deep breath, redoubling his efforts. He decided to play it cool. If he was going to play this game with Harry, he would test the waters first, and see what predators are lurking just beneath the surface, ready to bite.

“I might be busy.” Louis retorted, a whiff of dignity in his words. 

“Well, are you?” Harry asked, point blank. Shit, fuckery fuck. Louis should have expected Harry Styles, sex god to thousands, business student extraordinaire, to be the kind of person who gets straight to the god damn point.

“Er, no.” Silence. He can almost hear the face Harry is pulling. 

“Very well... May I come round then?” 

And then, “Oh. OH. Are you with Caroline?” Harry asked sheepishly, with a somewhat regretful tone lacing his words. Louis didn't think the two got on well, understandably. She could be terribly grating to the human ear. It was bizarre, though. He didn't not get on with anybody. He flirted with really old women, for God's sake, the age of Louis' nan. Or perhaps Louis had imagined the whole thing, maybe Harry was quiet that night, not because of Caroline, but because something was going on between him and his girlfriend(s). 

“God no,” Louis laughed, sincerely.

“Oh. Good.” He replied, simply. The line went quiet for a minute, and Louis took the phone away from his ear and watched the seconds tick by, putting it on loud speaker to ensure he wouldn't miss anything. But no, Harry said nothing, just waited for sixty, seventy, eighty seconds. Louis bit his lip, suppressing everything that wanted to submerge in his stomach.

“I'm free in about an hour.” Louis said eventually, a tone of weightlessness in his voice. 

“Then I shall see you shortly, Louis.” Harry said back, with something that sounded close to a promise. Then the dial tone. 

Louis grasped his phone to his chest, still on Harry's contact, and held it there, squeezing. Breathing. He would not let himself smile, not yet, not without knowing what was coming. But he carried on clutching that phone like a lifeline, and believed, even for the shortest moment, that things didn't look so bad right then.

**Author's Note:**

> There we go! This is going to be quite long guys, I feel it in my bones. Be gentle with me... 
> 
> I always appreciate the kudos/comments/bookmarks ;)


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